


drag me in with maybes.

by sp201120122013



Series: Drag Me In With Maybes [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 59,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp201120122013/pseuds/sp201120122013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>with hands broken down by distance and inspiration shoved flat through meat processor guidelines, gerard is spending his first fall out of high school as a failure. things change with the introduction of a new face to fuel his art, but the efforts he goes to in order to ensure he will see that face become increasingly troubling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I don't normally leave campus during the day. It costs enough in gas money to drive down there every morning, swerving on the interstate and challenging death from every semi truck that I have to pass on the way. Finding a parking space, then, is the second battle, and things are magnified to an even greater difficulty when all of the walking is factored in. It's a mile from the garage to the buildings, and I'm always huffing in the overbearing October humidity by the time I arrive. I ought to be lean and lanky, full of stringy muscle like the joggers who run by me effortlessly, slim neon track jackets offsetting my oversized black sweatshirt. It is at least oversized, but that isn't saying much. It traps in the sweat well enough, the humidity locking me in a damp cotton shell. 

This, then, adds up to the question of why I hiked an extra mile, added another journey to a day that normally would've worn down my sneakers well enough on its own. It could be because my afternoon class was cancelled, yet that doesn't change the fact that I had another one scheduled after it ended. There was only a three hour lapse, and three hours didn't justify the trek I had made to this deli. I had brought lunch. I wasn't even that hungry. Something inside me had been yelling for all sorts of different sandwiches earlier, and I came here with all the intent of buying out the place. That previous starving had now evaporated to nothing. Literally nothing, and I bought a soda and took a seat by the window. I was frustrated at myself, the problem of impulse, the problem of me pulling out a shitty (and overdue) library book to burn up time at a distant venue when I could've done it just as well at a bench on campus. Hell, I could be sleeping on a bench. It would make for a better waste of time, assuming I wasn't arrested on presumption of being homeless. 

There was literally nothing to do. I had left my sketchbook in the art building, and it was collecting dust and mold in the brief span of time between me wanting to lighten a bag and wanting to return and fill it up. I should've brought it along. My backpack was still heavy, and I was left bored as well as tired. I didn't even have the option of just leaving, just going home. I still had to walk all the way back to the campus, and then keep dragging my feet back to the garage in the same direction. I'd have to just go to class later. Later, but it'd take a while to get there. And it was hot. It was hot, I was tired, and I wasn't even doing that great in any of my classes--namely the art ones, that I had been so intent on blowing everyone away in. Somehow, despite being the best at high school, a million others had crawled out of the surrounding metropolitan woodwork and blown me away. So, resigned to sitting in the corner and accepting every C+ the professors chose to grace me with, I wasn't even so torn up over it anymore. It didn't matter, did it? At the end, I'd have the same life-defining piece of paper that everyone else did. I could get a job. Or switch into accounting. Either way, I wouldn't be completely homeless. Well, at least as long as my parents still let me stay in the basement. I mean, I could always pick up a minimum wage job. I should probably pick one up now. 

But, looking at the baggy eyes of the guy behind the register--my age, give or take a year or two--seeing all the exhaustion, the misery, the boredom and the defeat…I didn't want that. I couldn't be blamed for not wanting that, I mean, no one wants that. I was making something out of myself, and furthering my education. I was exhausted, miserable, bored, and defeated already, and I didn't even had a job. I barely had a seat at the community college, and I had plenty of rejection letters from actual schools to prove how crummy I was. I was unemployed and bumming off of my parents, getting nowhere fast. I was hiding my report card, and it was like high school all over again. Back then, I told them "oh, I'll be okay. I'm going to art school." Well, I was in art school now. And I wasn't doing much better. It wasn't for lack of intelligence, just a little lack of talent and a bigger lack of motivation. I wasn't trying as hard. It wouldn't really make a difference. I had poured all my feelings into one piece and got a D, then the next week I had just stuck to directions, stuck to outlines and prescribed formats, and turned out with a C. It wasn't a huge improvement, but I guess it was better. Going through the motions wasn't the worst thing in the world. It left a lot more free time to blow on the internet, pushing deep thought aside in lieu of anime.

I should probably get going now. It was definitely getting closer to my next class, the clock snapping closer to five PM with a long walk to burn up the minutes between now and then. I picked up my stuff, throwing away my trash and walking out of the building, head turned down on the sticky tile floor. The mustard stains on the ground held my attention too tightly, and I didn't notice when I walked into someone making their way in. I stuttered out a sorry, but choked on my words instead. I didn't have to look up that far to see him, he was small. Small and disheveled already, and sneering at me out of a lean frame and a metal-stuffed face. I wasn't aware that the school allowed piercings. I also wasn't aware if he was actually in school. I just saw a backpack and assumed high school. I just saw that face and stared. 

"Hey, you wanna move, fatass?" he snapped, pushing his way past me. I turned around, dazed, staring at the back of his head. Dark hair. I wish he'd turn around. I only got a small glimpse of that face, but oh, what a face. So angry, so well defined, that simple emotion at textbook grade. I had never seen someone like him before. He wasn't tall enough to go to any college nearby. No, perhaps he did. Perhaps he was walking in the same direction I was, maybe he just had to pick up some dinner before he went. I stood in the doorway, more people shoving past me in irritation as they tried to get inside. I was stuck staring at the back of his head. For the first time in three weeks, I wanted to draw something that wasn't an assignment. It was hardly even anything except that whorl on his head. It was just hair. Every single person I ever sat behind had the same one. But not his. This was fantastic. The way every hair layered, I wanted to pull them all off of his head and lay them out on paper. It could be something new and deep, something burning and introspective like the one green-haired girl in my class was always praised for creating. But I didn't intend on dying my hair green, I just intended to stare at his shaking head that was placing its order for as long as I could.

This wasn't the first time I had been so taken aback by someone. When I was in high school last year, there had been a transfer student, a marvelous and beautiful redhead. The year before that, a senior, who had first caught my attention two years before that. I had been fourteen years old, stumbling around lockers and classrooms just to catch a glimpse of this older student, never spending as much time on math problems as I did on picking out his schedule, praying to bump into him in a lunchroom or even just a hallway. I thought about him too much, so much that I had to start penning out sketches on paper. He was in art, too. I saw him hanging around in there from time to time, setting up ceramic displays and portraits on the walls. They were always of this beautiful, beautiful dog, a silky golden retriever. Each paintstroke on the canvas was an animal itself, and the warm wet eyes of the dog had to reflect the same of the owner. He had a heart of gold, golden like his dog. I could just feel it, feel it so strongly back then. 

I finally had my big break to him. The senior art show, the one gallery show of the year I attended. I stayed after school for five hours, waiting until the clock struck eight and all of the talented young adults came pouring in with their parents, dressed in black dresses and shiny shoes. I was wearing torn jeans, and I shuffled around out of place, pretending to be interested in the works of the other students. But all I could, I only stared at what he had made. The pots shaped by his hands, those hands that could not only shape, but also portray, depict, make images out of fuzzy memories. I reached out to touch one of the pots, just one. And it didn't fall to the floor at the will of my clumsy fingers, it did not even wobble. It was cool and sturdy, without any bumps in the glaze. He came up behind me then, and I heard his voice directed at me for the first time in my life. He asked me not to touch, and I immediately pulled my hand away. It still did not fall. I apologized, stuttered out sorry sentiments, and he just smiled at me. His eyes really were like that of the dog, and those lashes surrounding them were so soft, just as soft as the strokes of his paintings. I apologized again, and ran out of the school. 

I walked home, panting in the dark. I didn't run, so there was no excuse for my exertion. No excuse other than him. I went home and drew all night, scratched the contours of that smile over and over in my sketchbook, the one I never let anyone peer into. I had two, and one was full of the usual dragons and busty mages that so characterized the art of teenage boys. There were pages of fanart, of shaded heroes that always had the same hoods over the faces. They never had expressions, or any face to tell at all. The other sketchbook, though, the other sketchbook was nothing but faces. His face, over and over again, with every expression I imagined him to make, even though I had only ever had a few. And now I had added the smile to my collection. The smile when it was straight at me, and I covered my floor in eraser shavings and my thoughts with his face when the sun came up the next morning. I told my mother I had thrown up and stayed home from school, taking the time to sleep. He graduated a week later and I didn't draw all summer. 

The boy in front of me had picked up his order and was starting to turn around away from the counter, and I ran out the door before he could see I was still there. I ran and ran, down the street, and I could feel everyone staring at me. I stopped a few blocks down, tasting blood as my breath scraped my windpipe, and heaving from a stitch in my side. I slowed down, returning to walking. I wanted to get back to campus now. I actually wanted to draw, to copy down the back of that head, to pull out the colored pencils and insert just enough brown to get the shade far enough from black. I hadn't had such an interest in drawing since graduation of last year, when my urges and urges to copy the locks of red hair, of the transfer student tumbling out from under her cap three rows in front of me. My hands had itched the whole ceremony, but once it had finished, the urge was no more heavy on my mind than the degree was in my hands. I went home to waste the summer between now and college away on video games, and I barely drew anything over that time. I tried a few times, to pick up on the memories of those beautiful faces and put them back down on paper. But the faces didn't come. As they had walked out of my immediate life, so their faces walked out on my memories. The folds of the clothes that I had once so memorized, every gentle curve in their face, every angle of the body was gone from my mind. So I scrawled out crude figures, and left it at that. I had gone through half of my first semester of college leaving it at that, but now, walking at a quicker pace than usual back in the direction of campus, I was going to have a purpose with a pencil for the first time in months.


	2. Chapter 2

I had stayed home from classes today. Well, I hadn't actually stayed home, but driven my car to campus, parked in the garage, and taken up residence in my backseat, drawing. This had been my routine for the past two days, alternating between feverish drawing and equally feverish napping. I was sweaty when I woke up, every time, despite the weather getting cooler. I would go to class next week. It was Friday now, and yesterday I had felt queasy. Not queasy in the sense of an ill stomach, but rather queasy against the promise of having to separate myself from pencil to take up pen instead, to jot down notes in the introductory business class my parents had insisted I enroll in. The same parents that had kept me from actually staying home today. To be honest, I had to applaud them.

I was thankful for what their forcible influence, their insistence on attendance had led to. I may not be in class, but I was in the area. That was what mattered. I had started taking that walk every day…from the initial Tuesday, to Wednesday, and yesterday I eschewed the long trek over there and simply drove. There wasn't ample parking in the downtown area that the sandwich shop was located in, but I had burned enough of my allowance--yes, allowance--into quarters that paid the meter fee for the three hours required of me to be there. I didn't want to miss him.

It was never before 2:00, I had learned upon getting there eagerly early, and it was never after five. But between these three hours, at some point, I had seen him every day. Crunching on ice cubes until he got there, always pissing before I sat down to ensure I wouldn't have to get up, wouldn't have to miss him. I took seat by the window and waited. I had written down the different times he had gotten here the past few days…well, except for Tuesday. I had simply had to guess when that first encounter had been. Yesterday had been 2:17 PM, and the day before had been 3:45. He was with friends the day before. I couldn't tell you what they looked like. It didn't matter what they looked like.

On Wednesday, the subject--he didn't even have a name for me yet--had been wearing khakis and a hoodie. A black hoodie, with a big white paint stain thrown on the back. I tried to analyze if it had any deeper meaning, any artistic significance, but I don't think it was. It was too deliberate to be an accident, yet too sloppy to be any sort of art. I had wondered, briefly, if he could be an artist, too. I think I'm still wondering. I wondered if those hands, shoved deep in the pockets of that oversized hoodie, had ever drawn anything of their own. If they would be like that boy from high school. That boy from high school that mattered nothing now, for there was this new one. His shoes were very worn out, with rubber flapping off the sides and, from what I could see, pen on the dirty whites of these…Converse? Was that the brand? as well. He had to be an artist, he had to be. Those hands only dug themselves out of pockets briefly, to exchange money and carry out food. They were small. Under the zipper of his jacket, I thought I saw the edge of a collared shirt. He turned too fast to tell, though. 

It wasn't so much that as the backpack that told me he had to be in school. A ragged, duct-tape decorated backpack that was black, all black. It nearly blended in with his jacket, but I could see the straps easily. I noticed. The better look given before led me to believe he was in high school, but the problem came down to which. On Wednesday, he had been dressed well. Somewhat well, at least with the khakis, but everything else threw it off. Besides, the next day when he came in, with friends, he was dressed in the same hood, but with jeans. Jeans don't lend themselves to Catholic schools, and I knew there was one nearby. I think my brother may be attending there. But I wasn't completely sure. His grades had been too good for the public school, yet I wasn't sure if Mom and Dad had actually filed the paperwork to send him away to the Catholic school. I hadn't really kept up. The public school, then, that I had gone to, was also nearby. But there were three other public schools in the area. It could be any of them, but I at least knew it wasn't college.

When he had came in with his friends, again, the two boys accompanying him were noisy, brutish. Clearly more "punk" than the subject. He was dark around the eyes, sure, but his hair laid flat on his head. His hair was still that rich, rich dark, none of the brutish dyes of his friends. They wouldn't be allowed into a Catholic school with that mess on their heads, with the piercings and the strange clothes. He, he was drab next to them. He blent in a little, at least looking dark, but he certainly wasn't outstanding. He must have understood that he was too beautiful to modify, the perfection on his skeleton needing no alteration. He had to have understood. 

The library book from before had been replaced, and I had one of my textbooks covering the tiny table in front of me. It would work, it was understandable. Plenty of college students studied at places like this. Certainly, there weren't many around now, but I had seen enough movies to know what people did in real life. I kept looking out the window every second, nodding my head between pages that didn't matter inside and empty pavement that didn't matter outside. My head would keep jittering until I saw those beat up shoes, and maybe I could get a better look at them this time. He'd approach from behind where I was seated, me facing north and he coming from the south. I didn't let myself turn my head, crack my neck to look over for him, but kept content turning my head to the side to look as frequently as I could manage. I tried to put my attention on the book, tried to appreciate all of the concepts of lighting in portraits that this chapter obsessed over, but I couldn't. If only it held him as an example, the way that the fluorescent lights in here bounced off of his cheeks, his jaw, his nose. I wanted to see him in the daylight. I wished I could follow him out into that world I whispered him goodbye into every day, I wished I could see the flicker of the sun pass over him as it moved in between clouds. I wished I could take him to the art building I had been neglecting and put him under all of the lights that would shine over every single angle these cheap bulbs neglected to illuminate.

The cheap bulbs burnt on past five, and I was tired from waiting. He hadn't come. My meter had burnt out, and there was no one of which to speak of. He hadn't come, at all. There was no way I could have missed him, and he couldn't have come any earlier. He couldn't have. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps he had something else to do with those friends of his, but I had no more quarters to wait around with. I had to go home. I had to turn my back on the potential of seeing him, I had to go home and pacify myself with memories for an entire weekend. Two days and three nights. I suppose I could dote inside of a sketchbook, fill up pages with his face for all the hours that I've missed him. I pulled my backpack up on my shoulders, which were heavier with disappointment than any sort of scholarly weight. I wasn't a scholar, though. I was an artist. And this was what I was meant to do. To seek, to capture, to immortalize on a page. There was just the problem of an absent subject. A ball-joint doll evaporated, a little wooden figure wished into a real boy and given all of the legs and different plans that came with consciousness. But it didn't matter. I could wait. It wouldn't be such a bad weekend, and Monday would come soon.

Monday would come soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

The weekend passed by in a catatonic haze. I rushed through homework when I ran out of talent at four o clock in the morning. The lack of ability was not characterized by lack of inspiration, of course. He was still at the back of everything I did. As I wrote the art history paper (a week late already), I saw his face written into the portrait. I empathized with the painter's craving, the desperate longing to capture this…woman, or whoever it was. She must've been important if so much time had been devoted into filling a canvas with her face. I longed to have a canvas for him, I longed to set him down and just stare, stare at him for all the hours. Even the long, tedious work for business, for introductory English, I pushed through it thinking of him. All of the introductory classes would be so much more productive if they were simply introductions to him. The numbers, the words wouldn't make me the artist I was meant to be. I needed him.

Art, then, went better than it had in a while. There were figure drawings to be done for Monday, and I finally got proportions accurately on paper, without any nightmarishly long limbs or misaligned heads. They were all him, all the poses I imagined he could contort into. Him sitting. Sitting, a simple verb with so many possibilities. The cross-legged, the ankles crossed, the leaning, the slouching, the Victorian properness. He must be kept on edge at school, but then here, at home….he can lean around easily. He can collapse into the sofa I drew for him to fall into, full of pillows and facing the television that plays his favorite films. Whatever those may be. Again, it did me no good to write about something personal from my life for English. Better to read the encyclopedia of his interests, the phonebook of everyone he's ever known with each of their memoirs regarding him, and his autobiography, the rich Helvetica, the scrawling Times New Roman, even a playful Comic Sans to cover a page that he could touch with his voice, his words, every minute detail of every breath he took. I wrote about going to the zoo once, and I am nothing in comparison to the memories you must be able to detail.

There were more sketches on the page than the assignment had demanded, and I even took the care to illustrate a few a little further. Stroking colored pencil across grainy paper in a million tints of brown, closer to two in black and dirt. But it wasn't dirt, except from under my nails. And yours must be so clean. So beautifully, perfectly clean. Mine scraped and dragged across the paper, thick fingers trying to smash shades together. It didn't quite hit. I needed red, white, a million different shades of rust and amber to compliment everything growing out of your head. For all the times I've seen you, your back was mostly turned, and I sketch thick hoods falling down over delicate shoulders. You're skinny under all your bulk, I can see it. That's not to say you don't eat, because I see you order food every day. I'm trying to pick up on what you demand from the menu, but I can never tell. Your voice is always abrasive in the snippets I pick up, and you bark at the cash register in your self assured way. But your eyes turn down, and you're not so sure. You ought to be sure. You're perfect.

I can't sleep at all, not that weekend. I suppose that's a lie. Eventually my hands get tired, and my eyes fall down with them. I wake up at unspecified hours, wearing the same clothes three days in a row and not bothering to eat. I barely take the time to get a drink, go to the bathroom before tumbling back down to my basement room, winding myself up over the thoughts of him that I have nowhere to place. I kick at the trash on the floor, I roll over and over in attempts to get him close to me and out of my head. Except, I don't want him out of my head. I just want more little pieces of him to tape to the insides of my skull. It's getting harder to make new sketches out of the brief outlines of his body, of his face that are still in my head. And they're fading fast. The weekend is too rough of a delay. I need to see him sooner. I had to see him as soon as possible.

On Sunday afternoon, I take the car, go out for a drive. I mumble something about picking up books, but all I do is drive around town. I hit the same lights, cross the same intersections. But my eyes are less peeled for other drivers than they are for him. He could be walking around somewhere. He could need to buy something. He could be in any store, in any alley. I don't know where the high school kids hang out, I spent four years there and never went anywhere. I'm only a year out and I'm already searching for those places once more. I don't want to regress to high school, I want to find his high school, I want to find the places he hides from his parents. I want to know what he does, I just want to know everything that ever motivates him, ever captures his attention. I want to know if there is something that has captured him as he has captured me.

My brother catches the car keys angrily from my hand as I walk in the door. I was gone for four hours, stalling in parking lots and driving around town. He has been waiting for me to get home, waiting for the car. I ask him where he goes to school now, and he snaps the name of the Catholic school at me. He has been going there for months now, our parents switched him after two years of public. Something about a wider range of AP classes being offered there. "Finally," he tacks on at the end. His new girlfriend from said school has been waiting, as he promised her all sorts of things regarding his new driver's license. He takes the keys and stomps out the door, and I stumble down the stairs to my room. He wasn't going to a party, just a girl's house. Otherwise, I may have prodded him. But he wouldn't know anyway. He wouldn't know a thing, not one thing about a boy who may or may not go to his school, who could go anywhere. He really could go anywhere. The punk kids had to indicate public school. The way he was dressed could have been the Catholic school, but it was more likely that he had just needed to dress up for a presentation. There were so many mysteries connected to him. He was a ghost of a boy.

I roll down into bed once more, picking up my sketchbook again before I can think of falling asleep. And this little ghost inside my head runs down my brain stem and out my fingertips, every smudge in front of his face the same as every glance he ever shot me. There are no smudges on the paper. I scratch a line out on the paper, rough and ragged, and lick my fingers to drag across it. It's a little smear of hope.


	4. Chapter 4

Monday dawned early and hot. It's so hot for October, it's so, so hot. The newspapers and televisions are all screaming about the odd change in the climate. September had been normal enough, and the first week of this month had been equally normal, with mercury sliding down to the fifties as it always did. But it was pushing eighty. Eighty degrees didn't change my style of dress, and it was the same jeans, the same sweatshirt. I excused it as wearing something old in case of paint spills in art, but we weren't painting. Perhaps he was, though, and that was how the stain on his hoodie had occurred. Back to him already. It had been so long waiting to see him again, and it was only a few hours away.

I actually took the time to go to class, turning in all of the shoddy work I had completed out of the arms of sleep this weekend. I had put in the effort, it didn't make sense to neglect it even further. Sitting through lectures wasn't as bad as usual, and I "doodled" the entire time. I had always hated that phrase. It was the one that teachers always applied to me in elementary, middle, even high school. They didn't understand the distraction that ceased when I put pencil to paper. If I was left with empty hands, my head would just fill up with thoughts of him. If I could spill him out on paper, well, there might be a few more holes for the ever tedious burden of "knowledge" to seep into.

Art came, and we were meant to work on the pieces we had started last week. Well, the pieces everyone else had started last week. My professor sighed at me, taking my homework in and trying to avoid looking at me. He tossed it on his desk as I poked around the room for supplies, spending the period setting up canvas and dealing in all the menial preparatory works. This class ended at four. There was no way I would be able to get down to the deli today. He'd already be gone before I could do anything. And here, here was where the struggle came in. These studio hours were important. Very, very important. The three hours set out of the day for dedicated and forceful work, the only hours some of the people in here had. It was the only place where everything was available. It was a place I hadn't planned on wasting my afternoon away in. For all the thinking of seeing him again today, I hadn't actually pondered the logistics.

This studio session, it was Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Most of the week. It would leave me only Friday to run over to him, and Friday had failed last week. I'd have to work around the confines of my own schedule. I would have to completely eschew my own schedule. I didn't have to be here. I could work around everything. I could stick around here until four, and I could pick up this canvas, I could haul everything across canvas. I could use the paints I had at home. There were plenty. And if there weren't enough, I could buy more. I didn't need these hours when I had my own in the middle of the night. That was when everything came out anyway, wasn't it? Artists weren't meant to work in the daylight. The sun never shone on a single masterpiece. Just look at the Dutch. 

I carried this plan out, and heaved and sagged across campus with everything else I carried with me. There wasn't so much in my backpack, but the canvas was awkward and still wet in a few places from setting it. My clothes were a little stained with white, and it made me happier than it should have. I matched him. I went into my house, mumbled hello to my parents before going downstairs, kicking everything around to make room for the old easel, allot the space needed to set up an individual studio. I didn't need to be at class to complete the projects. That's all they cared about, and it was the last thing I needed. All I needed was to see him, and that was what would drive these projects. I crawled into my bed, sketching out some vague plans for the canvas's future before rolling over to sleep. Tonight would be a hibernation of sorts, the gathering of a surplus I could take while waiting for him to grace my eyes again. I wouldn't start on the project until I had him fresh and raw in my head once more. Tomorrow, there would be nothing to get in the way of seeing him.

 

\----

It was Tuesday. The studio class that had been cancelled last week was cancelled forever for me, the new studio given the privilege of being set up in my own basement. It was safer there, it stunk of me and all of the things in my head. That's where my art belonged. Not gently pulled out of me in a sterile gray room. Art rooms weren't supposed to resemble hospitals. Painting wasn't supposed to resemble bloodletting. I was here waiting to get my prescription filled, regardless, in the same chair from last week. And it only took an hour this time. Three PM, with the hands of the clock making a perfect right angle, and in he came. He was wearing the same thing as last Wednesday, exactly the same. Those khakis, that backpack. He looked rumpled. Heavily rumpled, and breathing even heavier. If he was dressed like this, perhaps he had presentations every week, or perhaps he did go to the Catholic school. 

There was a line piling up long behind him, and after he placed his order he was shoved off to the side, forced to stand in front of the rack of potato chips. He tugged the zipper of his jacket up higher, and I could see some splatters of paint stained on the front, too. He looked down, and with his eyes on the floor I tilted my head up to look at the long line of people--right. My eyes fell only on him, and I had hardly ever seen him from the front before. He had eyes obscured, but he was still breathing heavily. His hair was pasted to his forehead, somewhat long in the front, the color changed from brown to black with moisture. He was sweaty. Why, then, didn't he take his jacket off? It must be important to him. He always had it. I'd have to be sure to incorporate it with him all the time.

He sighed, pushing his sleeves up and looking over to the register, tapping his shoe impatiently. Arms. I hadn't seen arms before. They were thin, very thin, and the same white of his face. But not that white. He'd seen the sun often enough as a child, and he made an effort to stay out of it now. He was so small. His wrists were barely bones, with all the grace of a girl. His hands were jammed down into his pockets, but I could see those round nubs of bone poking out. He never looked over at me, his eyes were set hard on the ground. Was he scared? He had nothing to be scared about. Perhaps he was angry. I couldn't read him, all I saw was a teenage scowl. He was hostile. He was the type of rat meant to bite. 

"Frank!" the register girl called, and he picked his head up, shoving roughly past the people in front of him to pick up his paper bag. He was met with exclamations, offended backlash from the people he pushed aside, but he didn't care. He stomped out with his eyes set ahead of him, looking at no one else. He didn't turn around to all the yells, he just left. He walked out the door and left.

I eased back in my chair, hands a little shaky. He had lent me two more minutes of his time than he usually did. Involuntarily, unintentionally, but he had been there. Even better, I had a name for him now. Frank. Frank. Frank. I couldn't stop mouthing it to myself, rolling it over my tongue and around in my head. I crossed my arms over my chest, grabbing at them with opposite hands. They were thick, soft. They weren't like his. They weren't so delicate. I wasn't so delicate, but now I could draw him even better. He was new in my head again, and I yanked my sketchbook out, spilling things everywhere as I did. I had to draw him. I had to draw what I just saw. I scribbled for a long time, long enough for me to forget that it was getting darker outside. The sun had almost set when I noticed it was falling, and I picked up hastily. It wouldn't be good to walk so far in the dark, but I could get out of the city and back onto campus before it was completely dark. The campus wouldn't be so bad, there were streetlights.

Everything else was irrelevant, and dark wasn't even in my vocabulary anymore. Night, burglary, time, travel, they were all gone and replaced with only one proper noun.

Frank.


	5. Chapter 5

I was sitting in business three days later. I had seen him every day since then, and been up all night drawing him. Despite my exhaustion, my hand was still able to move smoothly as it wrote in my notebook. Not class notes. I had long since given up achieving more than a C in this class, and I could skate to that achievement on whatever instinctual intelligence I happened to possess. I simply wrote his name over and over again. Frank. Frank. Frank. I pushed the pen harder into the paper, trying to drive it past the desk and into the earth itself. The ground should eschew its street signs, its billboards. Only one thing was perfect enough to merit such public notation. Only his name.

Classes went as slowly as they always did, and I was out of my last one of the day as soon as the professor barely eluded to dismissal. My shoes were hitting the pavement in a waddling rhythm, and I tugged my jeans up. I was losing weight. It made sense, with all the walking I had been doing and the meals I had been skipping. It was nothing intentional. I just couldn't be bothered to eat when I had better things to do with my time. I was burning calories being up all night, and I had taken to eating ice cubes all the time. I associated them with him. Crunching on them while drawing made the whole thing seem…a little more real. It felt as if maybe, if enough chill shot through my teeth, that I'd somehow bring him here through some magic, some ritual of a blizzard. Maybe I could twist reality enough to drag him out of the canvas I scratched him onto.

It wasn't always explicitly him. If I had learned anything in all of those years of art classes, it was that being too specific got you nowhere. No one wanted portraits, they wanted pieces that were "expansive," "challenging," "innovative." Looking back, my excessively portraiture stacked portfolio may well have been the reason I was rejected from so many schools. They didn't appreciate the people I had depicted. No one, no one could even begin to understand how much Frank deserved appreciation. Just tumbling his name over in my head sent a shiver through me. Not a cold one, a hot one. The sort of feverish tremble that rattled around my arteries and made my whole body hungry, eager. I would see him soon. I just had to keep walking.

I picked up my pace even more, striding towards the direction of my new favorite place to be. All of the landmarks on the way, every other store, every stoplight, every street I had to cross excited me. They were all little stepping stones, lily pads in the pond, everything I got to look at before eventually seeing him. And I wondered, what did he see on his walk? I made a note to myself to walk his route one day. Not during school hours. That wasn't good. But one day, perhaps this weekend, I'd try to find his path.

I wished I could go to his school right now. I was starting to assume he attended the Catholic one, after seeing him in khakis day after day, sometimes catching slips of collars from underneath that hoodie. Normal kids didn't dress like that for school, and I'm sure Frank changed every day before coming down here. He was too good for that place, that cookie-cutter garb, and he knew it. He wasn't shy to keep up his appearances. His gorgeous, gorgeous appearances. It wasn't like I couldn't find an excuse to go to that school. My brother attended there, after all. I could say there had been a family emergency. An appointment. I would take him out to lunch and make him suffer through my existence, one he'd surely rather avoid, making a fool out of myself just for the sake of sniffing the halls Frank must skulk around.

I wondered what he looked like without his real clothes on. Primed for success in that uniform alone, without any black to hide behind. With his shirt tucked in, tie tugged straight, without even sleeves to roll up. With a blazer, of all things. I knew what it looked like on my brother, I was awake more often and sometimes caught him in the kitchen in the mornings. But it didn't look good on my brother. He was angular, dull, with nothing special to speak of. He didn't compact down to that tiny peak Frank did, all of his vital organs pressed to the most sensible proportion. He didn't need to stretch out. His height made him even more perfect, a little doll, a model mannequin to see all the proportions of. It was hard to see the details through the layers of his clothes, but I could imagine. I had his arms, if nothing else. I had been drawing arms for the past few days. I touched my fingers to the sketches after I finished, tracing the contours and wondering what he'd feel like in real life. I doubted I'd ever know.

Falling into my usual chair, with my usual order, I saw the girl working today look at me out of the corner of her eye before shaking her head. She tended to stare at me. She couldn't think I was so strange. Plenty of people did this. Obviously, she had never seen a romantic comedy in her life. She didn't understand, and she didn't matter anyways. I looked at my watch, grinning as three o' clock crept closer. It was his regular time. The regular time for Frank to show up. I had been tracking this. He would arrive soon.

"Soon" was as soon as I looked up again. He didn't have his hoodie on, and his backpack looked a little fatter. It must be in there. It wasn't as warm as it had been, though. He looked sweaty, though. His skin was white and somewhat damp looking, and he was breathing heavily. He ordered hastily, slumping against the side of the counter to wait. His chest heaved as he caught his breath. He was wearing a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, and it was stuck to him with sweat in some places. It was bright white, well washed, and it made him look even paler. He wasn't the type to get outside much.

"Just like me." I mumbled to myself before I caught what I had just done and bit my tongue inside my mouth. It wouldn't look good to start talking to myself now. I bent my head farther down and looked at him through the overgrown shag of my hair. He had his eyes stuck on the ground, as he usually did. One sleeve was starting to fall, and he shoved it back up again. I could see the veins bulging out of his spindly arms. He was full of blood, and that was an odd thing to think of. The fact that he really did exist. That he was actually human, not a god tumbled out of the sky. He sure as hell looked like one, though. He licked his lips, and his tongue was bright, bright red. It was just a tip, but again. That small protrusion of more muscle, of more exposition of internal function made him more real by the second. The flush on his cheeks from chill and exertion, this white little boy was turning redder and redder. He was full of blood. So, so much blood. 

He grabbed his order hastily, striding to the back of the restaurant to one of the more hidden tables, far from the window. I couldn't help snapping my head to follow him in surprise. He never stuck around. He was here early, and he was staying later. What was going on? I shifted slightly in my seat, trying to give myself a better view. It was difficult to see without outright craning towards him, and there were many other people present serving to block my vision. I wanted to scoot closer, far far closer. Him being in the room was establishing so much tension, making me so edgy in my seat. I wanted to watch him eat. I wanted to see the manner in which he existed, the way his mouth moved, the way his hands moved. He was a living case study, and I wanted more and more of him.

I continued to peer out of the corner of my eye at him, straining to catch blurs of his eating and movements. I wanted him so badly. I wanted to stare at him. I wanted to have the freedom to watch his each and every movement, to document each twitch of his eyelid and each breath that passed out of his mouth. I was burning up inside, scratching at my styrofoam cup with all of the pent up urges to chase, to pursue, to initiate contact with him. But I never could. He was far too good for me. I could only be blessed with whatever hints of existence he chose to lend me. He lent me half an hour, and I gawked at him as he threw his garbage away, as he walked out the door and never glanced at me.

I stayed up until four in the morning smudging shades around his face, setting shines of sweat and smears of shadow everywhere. He was disheveled and beautiful in my drawings, and I carefully stroked them, so as not to ruin them. Black and white couldn't portray him so perfectly, and the next day I didn't catch him at all. I wasn't so hurt. The memories of before pushed me to paint in red, varying shades of red, red, all red. I painted the whole thing in one night, and turned it in to class along with another stack of work. He was in every assignment, and I was pushing so far beyond the assignments that my professor tried to stop me for comments, for praise. I didn't need anything he said to me. I just needed more of Frank.


	6. Chapter 6

For the first time since I had started frequenting the deli so regularly, I was emptying my wallet for something that wasn't ice. I had progressed to actual drinks in the past few days, figuring that the owners would appreciate my loitering more if I actually contributed more to their profits. But today I was hungry enough to want a sandwich. I had been pulling all nighters the past couple of evenings, full of too much Frank to be able to fall asleep. The coffee had done a great job in helping, but my stomach was filled only by that and not much else. Eating didn't come very regularly when I was caught up in the work ethic. I didn't need it anyway. I wasn't hungry, not even now, I just wanted the grinding pains to stop. The only thing I was "hungry" for, pardoning the animalistic nature of that sentiment, was Frank.

It sounded dirty, disgusting and dirty to put what I wanted of Frank into those common, sexual terms. I didn't "lust" after him. I had never even thought about him like that. He was too perfect to be touched, especially by me. My hands, looking at them as I fished the limp money out of my battered wallet, were covered in graphite to the point that they looked gray. The dead, fishy sort of gray that happened when a lot of grime rubbed off on unhealthy skin. I did have to say, I had gone out more in the past few weeks than I had in years. Thanks to Frank. Everything was thanks to Frank.

As usual, I was hastily looking over my shoulder every few seconds, to the point where the cashier had to snap at me for my attention. Embarrassed, I handed out the money and returned to my search for him. He wasn't here yet. I almost wished he'd come a little later, so I didn't have to be caught eating around him. He never saw me anyway, but I wanted to safeguard myself in case he ever did. I know he'd never see me as anything worthwhile, but I at least wanted to save myself the humiliation of him being disgusted with me. I didn't want to see his face twist into that distaste, that revulsion, no. I wanted to see him blank, beautiful and pure. He was some sort of David, too perfect for emotion, but at the same time imperfect enough to show plenty of emotion. I'd seen them on him before, plenty of times before. I wasn't even sure what I wanted him to be. In the end, what I wanted wasn't even relevant. He was his own existence, on his own plane that I could only stare up at and marvel in. 

My order got rang off, and I grabbed for the back, turning around to walk to my usual seat. And then, two inches down from me, he crashed. Frank, right in front of me in his jacket, so close I could see where the paint spots on it were cracking. He smelled like sweat, he smelled clammy and I could see the droplets of sweat on his forehead. His hair was soft and clean--more brown than black. I had been mistaken before. His hood was down and I could see so much of his face. I could see how round his cheeks were, flush with exertion and plump with youth, not pudge. He wasn't heavy enough to hurt when he crashed into me, but I almost lost balance anyway. He had touched me. We had made concrete, physical contact, with his face into my chest. I was wearing a hoodie, a tshirt beneath, but I could feel the transfer of warmth. Aided by friction, I felt like I was almost burning, and my face was red enough to add to the sensation. It felt like I was ignited.

"S-sorry," I stuttered, jumping out of his way. He only sneered at me before turning his attention to the register, leaving me to stumble to where I normally sat. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and I only unwrapped my food to give myself something to do, picking at the crust of the bread with shaky hands. I had touched him. I could feel the entire imprint of his body plastered to my chest, and I looked at him from under my hair. He didn't seem to notice. His friends weren't with him today, and they seemed to be accompanying him here a lot less frequently. I was pleased by this. They were unsavory, they had strange hair and metal in their mouths. Braces jostling against lip piercings, not that I ever paid them as much attention as I did Frank. 

Frank was unsullied, natural hair color and no modifications. He was good that way. I wouldn't fall into the cliche of "alternative art" by recreating him, only the classical cliche of devoting art to the most beautiful available subject. He may not be a lady done up in tapestries of garment, but he outdid all of the pale, doughy faces of those women. He was outstanding, and his sleeves were shoved up again today. Those arms were so skinny, and he looked so breakable. The paper I was constantly scribbling him on looked stronger than he did, a little reed waiting to be bent. He was gone faster than usual, and I only imagined the stink rolling out of his armpits, sweaty in his rush. I knew what his sweat smelled like. I knew what he smelled like, at that basic hormonal level. It made me shake and that shake made me guilty. No one else had made me shake before. But no one else had ever been that close.

I threw my food away and went home speedier than I usually did. I was too flustered to sit down and start working on anything, and I couldn't even attempt to clear my head by taking a jab at my other work. That was turning into the very last priority on my list, and that comfortable C was turning into a less comfortable D. I needed to get back on top of things. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I stared at my bedroom wall, breathing too heavily for no reason. I kept patting my chest, trying to absorb, sponge up the remnants of his touch. Skin flaked off rapidly, did it not? There had to be a million little particles cleaning to the front of my hoodie now, and I was glad I had washed it recently. It was clean to inherit his cells. I pushed up my sleeves, hugging my front. It was like I was holding a small part of him close, keeping him in my arms. And how I wished I could possess him. To have him on demand all the time, free for me to endlessly stare at. I'd be in a museum with all of the art I put out, if I had that blessing. A gallery devoted to Frank. It would be the most beautiful exhibit in the world, and he could stand in the middle of it all. The most important guest.

My hoodie was turning warm with my incessant fingering of it, but it didn't compare to the burning boy who had jolted into me before. He was feverish, likely from running. He always seemed to be in such a rush, coming into the store. Even when he came in with his friends he looked anxious, ready to bolt at any second. I wished he would stay. I always wished he would stay. I just wanted to see him. Feeling him today, that physical collision....that was more than I ever could have asked for. I laid out on my back, easing myself down onto the bed and turning my attention to the ceiling. The water stains kept it from being half as white as Frank was. Frank was only damp with sweat. That sweat was on me. I could feel it.

Something clicked in my head. I could feel his sweat, certainly. But could I perhaps even absorb it? Could I have the privilege of taking it into my own skin? Surely, some of it still stuck to me. I was sticky with my own sweat, literally melting from his touch. It was cliche as some sort of movie, but surely less romantic. I was merely the observer, not the lover. My love for him was different, built up quickly and violently in such short time. It wasn't the dirty, sloppy high school love that my younger brother was so involved in. He didn't understand the sanctity of flesh. He didn't hold his girlfriend's clothes close to him, hardly even held her close to him when he had all of the opportunity in the world. Frank wasn't a girlfriend, wasn't a lover. He was a subject. An immaculate subject.

I wanted to absorb that subjectivity. The idea vague in my mind, I slowly and carefully tugged off my hoodie, laying it out on the bed face up. I pulled off my damp, holey shirt as well, throwing it off to the ground. It hadn't touched Frank. It wasn't important. My face flushed darker, embarrassed by my own existence, but I tried to forget about myself as I started to tug at my hoodie again, switching it from right side out to inside out, the rough material from the inside now on display. Biting my lip, I put it back on, and the holy place where Frank had collided into me earlier was now smashed against my skin. I exhaled slowly, wrapping my arms around myself again and rolling over onto my stomach. I pressed the fabric against myself as hard as I could, trying to squeeze all of Frank into myself. It was hotter, hotter with the combined warmth of my arms and the entrapment of the bed. I would smash him inside me, try and let the rivulets of sweat on me carry him inside like trickling little waterfalls. I rocked gently back and forth, trying to recreate the rolling sensation I had felt when he first hit me. 

For the first time in a while, I was lulled into an easy sleep. I didn't dream of anything, but I woke up hot and sweatier than before, tangled in blankets and cradled by Frank's dead little bits of skin. They were in me now, I could tell, and I could keep them close. I pushed myself up, wringing my hands together to grind in what I had touched off of my hoodie from my earlier stroking of it. I was fit to create now, fit to encourage his two dimensional existence at a better level. Better now that I had the three dimensional concept of him in my head, better that I had slept until dawn of the next day and I could see him with even smaller delay. I left the reversed hoodie on me, pulling another one on overtop it. I was thankful that the weather was finally starting to chill, thankful that I could be afforded the blessing of keeping him so close to me. Those little particles of him were close to my existence now, and his existence was becoming less fragmented every day. 

The sun was gorgeous, a million different colors streaming through my dingy basement window. But it couldn't compare to Frank. Nothing could compare to Frank. There was no heat, no dynamic, no image that could ever match him. Nothing in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

I wasn't able to meet Frank today. Meet used in the loosest definition, of course. Today my timetable was full with scheduled meetings with all of my professors. A "mid semester check" by definition of the school. It was similar to parent teacher conferences, except the parents were removed and the burden placed upon the students instead. The burden to sip cheap coffee, eat stale cookies, and hear about everything wrong in your child's academic life--except now the children were adults themselves, dealing with all the berating without mommy and daddy to throw up a shield. I sighed, staring at the conference schedule in my hand. Business 101, Intro to English Studies, Fundamentals of Art, Two-Dimensional Art I, and 2DART Studio I. Fifteen credit hours, the normal routine for people my age. Just like everyone I went to high school with, I was marooned in the same town, the same dumpy community college that all the other losers found themselves in, the same sticky chairs as high school. 

It had been a blessing, though. New York? Chicago? I couldn't even fathom leaving this town, not with Frank here. It was like throwing a kitten to the wolves, cutting off a leg before running a race. He was the most important force in my life, and to have left, to have never even seen him...I would have no purpose whatsoever. I couldn't imagine it. I wouldn't allow myself to think it. Logistically, the only proof of my dependency anyone needed to see was the pile of art stacking in my portfolio. I was going to be an artist, if only to document his features. Nothing else mattered. Forget the plants, I could only care about leaves, greens, chlorophyll and daisies, only ever care if he was standing beneath them, or cupping petals in his palms. 

Frank was more the type to stomp on the petunias, though. At least from what I'd seen of him. And that was what made him such a beautiful marvel.

The meetings were going slow already, with my business teacher doing little short of screaming at me. I was hobbling around a C, only due to my insomnia enabling me to stay up and complete work. There were small Fs drawn in the margins, doodles all over the place on the handouts. My tests were average at best, essays lackluster but filling the requirements. I think the teacher almost wished I was failing. He hated the "artistic types" and had mentioned this fact over and over in his lectures, glaring at me whenever I chanced to look up and pay attention. He was obsessed with the concept of real jobs, of hard work and mind-numbing perseverance. He had probably never appreciated the beauty of another human being in his life. People like that were as good as blind. He yelled at me for nodding off in class, for being so distracted, for not putting in my "full potential." His insults called me a waste of class time, a waste of my parents' investment, and went so far as to call me a lousy good for nothing, a bum with no future. 

Community college professors weren't held to the same standards as university professors, but it was likely that I could still report him for abuse. In general, professors weren't supposed to behave like this towards students. But I didn't care. I honestly didn't care, and none of the words he battered with affected me at all. My steady 75 percent was reflected in glassy rage in his eyes, my inability to fail more of a disappointment to him than my mediocrity. I began to phase out of his monotone anger, avert my gaze to go blankly towards the wall. But he interrupted yet again, and this time it was him dismissing me. I couldn't have heard anything better. 

Well, in all honesty, of course I could. Anything Frank could say would be like bells ringing on Christmas morning. But no, I had to sacrifice him for these meetings. They weren't even worth going to. Nothing mandatory ever is.

English was unimportant, boring. The teacher was again obsessed with the fact that I just so happened to be in art classes. She said I must have so much more creativity in me, that I must have such exciting new perspectives to bring to class. I had a B in the class, my essays were fine, well written enough albeit "lacking heart" as she put it. Well, of course I was halfhearted. I didn't have any heart to put into this class, I couldn't put Frank into words. I couldn't put any "heart" into a class that never did anything except postpone those daily sightings of Frank. I was tired of staring at Powerpoints on stale books. I was exhausted with the whole idea of "literature," it didn't have anything that art did. There wasn't a point in throwing out words, paragraphs, extravagant analogies on something that could so easily be depicted instead. And something like Frank could never fit inside the confines of Times New Roman. She gave me a weak smile at the end of the talk, encouraging words coming straight from her cardigan-covered heart. I smiled back, pushing teeth out of my mouth almost in pain, and turned around to the next lecture I had to endure.

The Fundamentals of Art teacher was bland beyond belief. He complimented my boring shape assignments, my boring color theory assignments, my boring reports and boring projects. There was nothing great I could make when all he was telling the class to do was mix red and green, to shade in circles. The only consolation I could create was smearing out the best brown I could find in the paint tray, trying, to get as close to Frank's warm little head as I could. I tried to shade the spheres with memory of his eye sockets, wishing I could flatten them down to the curves of his cheeks. It was practice, if nothing else. The teacher was flat in voice, and was nothing but technical. I was drowning in textbook artistry, and the entire point of art was being missed. Shapes and colors weren't worth anything when they had no greater purpose. They were just lumps on a page. Well crafted, beautiful little lumps. And just like lumps of sugar in coffee, they fizzled out and dissolved into nothing, lost in the greater sea of ground up garbage that was passed off as being worthwhile. It could be swallowed down and swallowed down, but it tasted like shit and was worth the same. 

My last teacher was the only one whose opinion was even loosely worthwhile. The master of both the 2-D class and the studio hours, and of course he met me with a scowl right off the bat. My attendance was a nightmare, I was at studio hours less than half the time. Hardly even a quarter of the time. He continued to say that he had no clue how I was able to produce the work I was turning in without attending studio hours. That the improvement I had made since the beginning of the semester was outstanding, if not briefly inconsistent. Those inconsistencies, of course, being the days I hadn't seen Frank. He applauded me, asked what had changed, asked if it had been something I had learned in his class. He seemed hopeful. I'd be hopeful, too, if I was teaching at a dead end community college. I smiled at him, shrugging my shoulders. That satisfied him enough, set him into beaming at what he thought was my shy accomplishments--his responsibility, he thought. He'd had nothing to do with it. His class was just a chore.

The day ended with him, and I scowled at my phone after checking it for the time. 5:17. Too late to catch Frank. I sighed, starting on the hike back to the garage, the hike back to the car. It came easier than it had before, and I could tell I was getting stronger. From all the walking, that overwhelming amount of walking I had been doing. I was losing weight (mostly from forgetting to eat). Frank was better for me in every way. The crummy grades in half my classes would be the crummy grades in all of my classes. I hadn't been a stellar student in high school, but at least Frank provided some sort of motivation--well, closer to all of my motivation. 

It was a shame he didn't motivate me towards my other classes. My parents were waiting for me when I got home, and my brother, too. He was lurking at the top of the staircase as my parents swooped in on me at the hall, report card in hand, pointing out everything that was wrong with it. All of the money they were wasting on me, all of the time I wasted every day, the fact that I shouldn't even be allowed at college if I couldn't support my "stupid shit" with an actual job. They yelled and yelled, and I didn't even bother to notice. It wasn't important to me. I couldn't be bothered, and they could tell I couldn't be bothered. Of course, it just made them angrier. They compared me to my brother until their faces looked purple, turned enraged past red and ready to pop. Like grapes. I wondered if Frank liked grapes. I wondered if he'd ever lay out like one of those pale, lumpy women from the Renaissance, nothing to do but sprawl. It'd be a miracle if he ever did that for me, if he ever let that hoodie fall off to show whether his chest, the skin across his ribcage was just as snowy as his arms.

But that'd never happen.

My parents saw me drifting and sent me off in disgust. Nineteen years old and still being sent down to my bedroom. I should've graduated a year ago, should've been eighteen my first year of college. But no. Mom and Dad had thought I needed another year to adjust to life before entering kindergarten. Another year of preschool. They were so intent on wasting my time, on dragging me down. I hated them. Their only purpose was to impede, to impose, to block and cause problems, problems, problem after problem after problem. They thought I was such a failure compared to my brother, well, good on him. I wish they'd just forget about me, leave me to draw and focus on him. They didn't care about the As in the art classes, they were still irritated I was doing art to begin with. Business, business, business. Michael was going into business. The perfect fucking son. And then the recluse, the bizarre black spot spreading out to stain their basement. They should've just had him and scraped me out.

I rolled over and tried to sleep, for the first time in a while. Not the first time I had slept, but the first time I had really wanted to sleep, with no want for any other waste of my time. It didn't make a difference.


	8. Chapter 8

Simply staking out tables at the deli every day wasn't doing the best job in the world. There was only so much information that could be accumulated about someone via their sandwich order, only so much that could be gathered based on a small handful of glances a day. The rest of him was still a lump of mystery, wrapped up in that same hoodie and now gloves, with the weather getting colder. He was rubbing his hands together despite this fact, though. The last time I saw him, at least. It would make sense that he would be cold. He was small. He was too delicate for the sharp winds that were blowing across our flat square of Jersey, our chilly spot of zipcode. The previous hot streak may have been muggy, may have been awful, but it was a lot better than the icy wind that was pelting me on all of my walks. 

Little Frank had been knocking his teeth together on his entries in, and his friends were with him all the time now. They spent a lot more time eating indoors, cupping hot drinks with their dirty hands as they surrounded Frank. Their stupid haircuts, the piercings on their faces and offensive slogans on their clothing formed a barrier of bad company around him. He only wore his khakis half the time, swapped to dark, torn jeans the other half. He must be changing at school. They certainly didn't match the dress code. They didn't match at all. I knew he was still attending the Catholic school, though. I could see the collar of his shirt peeking over the hood of his jacket, even the hint of a tie when he turned around. Aside from my own observations, I could hear his friends incessantly teasing him about it. Choir boy. Altar boy. Throwing out insults, comments that made me blush from my table in the corner. The stereotypes, the media perpetrations, the pop culture description of what actually takes place in those Masses, in those confessionals.

Not Frank, though. Not Frank.

Anyway, I did the most logical thing to do in this situation. With the prime connection at hand, it would be foolish to ignore. The connection, of course, being in my brother. Chained to the same gang as Frank, the Catholic school where they must be at least close in grade level, at least somewhat similar, my brother being a junior. Frank had to be at least close. If nothing else, he went to the same school. He hovered around the same hallways, drank in the same dust, glared at the same white walls as...my brother. Right. My brother, drab and dull in a textbook, harboring none of Frank's characteristics. But, of course, sharing the most important. Similarity of location. A prime resource.

One particularly cold day, I crawled up from the basement, surfaced to eat with the family. They commented on how my clothes were hanging looser, how my cheeks looked less heavy. Things were still tense from the previous fight, but they were at least getting better. A little better. Not greatly improved by any means, but the conversation was at least civil. My mother asked if I had been exercising, and I shook my head, looked back down at the food on my plate. I wasn't even hungry. They set my portion of food into the fridge on most nights, expecting me to wander up for it eventually. I had been doing that less, only taking to food when I really needed it. I was too preoccupied to eat. 

The meal concluded with as much haste as it possibly could, and my brother retreated upstairs to his room. I hesitated, poking around the living room aimlessly, picking up a newspaper in my hands to turn over a few times before I finally went after him. I knocked on his door, the door of the room we used to share when we were kids. Bunk beds. Those days were long gone. He opened quickly, squinting and frowning as I asked to be let in. He obliged, still looking at me with hostility, confusion. I couldn't blame him. We weren't exactly close. His room was bland, with a plain blue bedspread, a desk with a lamp on it showing just how organized everything on it was. The walls were bare, and even the dirty laundry was all collected into a hamper. The neatness made his room look like something out of a catalog, it looked like something ready to be photographed and marketed. He was the model child in every way.

"What do you want?" he snapped. "I'm busy, I still have a lot of work to do tonight."

"I was wondering...um..."

"Yes?"

"Well, at your school. I was wondering if you knew....a boy."

"God, Gerard, again with this..."

"No, it's not..."

"It was bad enough when I was going to school with you. Do you know what it was like? Being the number one freak's little brother?"

"I..."

"No, don't even try and say anything. People talked about you, you know that? Everyone knew who you were. And going after the goddamn French girl last year? She didn't even know what the hell to do with you. You, following her all the time."

"Not all the..."

"Yes, you did. She was asking people if you were, if you were autistic or something. Do you know what it's like to hear people say 'oh, no, he's just a freak'? My brother. The biggest freak of the school. What great footsteps to follow behind in."

"Mikey, it..."

"You know exactly what the hell it was. You know why I transferred schools?"

"For acade..."

"No, Gerard. Not for academics. To get a new start."

Mikey, I...."

"Please go away, Gerard. I have studying to do."

"You didn't say..."

"No. No, Gerard, anyone you might be after, any poor pretty girl...or, or boy, I am not helping you in your creepy little pursuit of them. It's fucking weird. It's really fucking weird. And so are you." 

My brother had been pushing me out into the hallway as he was talking, making me walk backwards as he punctuated his last sentence, slammed the door in my face. I shouldn't have thought he was going to be any help. He was all reports, spreadsheets, documents and papers. The only ink his hands were smeared with was printer ink, numbers and decimals blurred into smears on his fingers. Sterile, dull smears. It wasn't anything but a task. Menial, mind numbing, and his favorite thing in the whole world of worlds. His world was growing closer and closer to a doomed cubicle, a cubicle he was more and more content to be in.

Frank would never be content to dwell in a cubicle.

Frank may be pinned in the same khakis, the same button down and collar up uniform that my brother contained himself in. But Frank didn't pat down his blazer lapels, rather threw the blazer off. He limited himself to nothing, and burned the boxes my brother put himself in. Not everyone who went to Catholic school knelt down before the altar of holy salaries and nuclear families. Frank couldn't care. The best subjects never could. It was far more productive to catch the blaze of dissatisfaction in his eye, the tiny smolder of hate when he caught everything around him. His eyes snagged on coat racks in anger, and I had only seen him outside of school. Imagining him packed into the sardine rack of crosses and conformity--he must set the desks on fire.

I didn't sleep that night, again. Instead I spent the time dipping into the reds and oranges, lighting up the burns in his pupils and the glow of his own heat on that white, white skin. Fire was supposed to turn white at a certain point, or at least I had heard that somewhere. The phrase "white hot" had gotten stuck in my head at some point. Probably everyone's head. It was certainly cliche enough.

Picasso had his own phases. I couldn't recall most of them--art history hadn't stuck in my head so very well. I could say I was having my own phases, but they were really just phases of Frank. His moods, his attitudes, a boy that flickered with the weather. There was the sticky blue, brown, and black of earlier in the year--it was still humid, and all I knew was the shadow of his jacket and the blur of his hair. The hot, damp clouds in the damper blue sky were the best background I could scrounge. 

Before, I had been working on deriving facial expressions, slouches, the best I could gather from the limited view of him I held. I couldn't exactly depict a body when there was hardly a body to locate between that was buried under layers of cloth and defensive instinct. Not until that day he pushed up his sleeves, when the world shifted from black and blue to white and pink. It was Valentine's day on a sheet of paper, pale and flushed like the tiny bones poking under his skin. He was made of toothpicks and snow, and the background shifted to a gray blur as the colder clouds began to roll in.

It was then that I started to imagine a body. With that flash of skeletal structure, I could start to imagine what the rest of him may be. Delicate, fragile, skinny for certain. I began to notice how his clothes hung on his frame, beginning to draw the slants in his clothing as well as my imaginings of what must be beneath them. I sweated inside my hoodie that first time I sketched out what he must be without that layer upon him. The bare Frank on my paper had underwear, absolutely. I hated the idea of stripping models bare. It was embarrassing. I could never look when they herded naked young girls into class to be drawn, whoring out their freckle-peppered bodies to make some extra money. It was vulgar. Frank was to be treated as something sacred, and even the Greeks didn't afford as much dignity to their gods as I gave to him. 

The fact remained that I had to peel off my sweatshirt once I thought I had finally wrangled his proportions, a fact that also relayed how clammy, hot my body was. How everything was on edge. The other subjects hadn't given me this problem. They were just that--subjects. I was beginning to think Frank could be something different. Perhaps the one true muse, the one thing all artists wind up searching for. That final ingredient, the biggest kick in their working dynamic. Or, perhaps the biggest kick in the back of my head as I lay down that night, closer to that morning as I squirmed beneath my sheets, trying to get the images of Frank out of my head. The images where Frank was closer to one of those gods. I gave up, choosing to go upstairs and take a shower instead. It was the first in a bit of time. A few days, I wasn't sure. Frank was taking priority. Me creating Frank was the biggest priority.

The phase I was in right now was the hot stage. Hot with the fire in his eyes, hot with the sweat in my palms and under my collar. I was, to use the phrase, consumed. Frank was a fever, I was feverish, and this wasn't a phase that would break anytime soon. The chill outside was all that kept from consumption by it. I was swimming in my own sweat over him, even after I washed the first wave of it off. Frank was different from everything ever before. Frank was a flame. I was engulfed.


	9. Chapter 9

I didn't wind up sleeping until four in the morning. It worked out so that the only thing that had worked to lull me to sleep was a clumsy grab beneath my boxers, an embarrassing episode of masturbation. It had been a long time since that had happened. It was, as I had said, embarrassing. It may be stupid, but I was trying to think of myself as being above that now. High school was nothing but a load of jack-offs, literal and metaphorical if the semen stains on the theatre prop couches and the penises drawn on the bathroom walls were any indication. I wasn't like that. I wasn't so caught up in my own hand that I lost the world around me. I was caught up in subjects, always. If not Frank, it was those who came before him.

I had never touched myself over any of them before. They were sacred, holy in the same way that I could never read my favorite book on the toilet as a child. I couldn't think about them like that. Careless masturbation was reserved for days of excessive boredom, lost over things other people had drawn. I wasn't some perfect male, I threw away plenty of tissues over carefully shaded breasts. But that was nothing real. Those were simply two-dimensional vessels burning out of my computer screen at three in the morning, like any other high school boy whenever I got too bored. I had done a lot of that over the summer, and it had never made me feel anything but pathetic. Ever since I met Frank, I hadn't.

I had been busy with Frank. Not busy with clammy hands, but busy with work. There was a large amount of effort that went into detailing every action he took, and no one else could really seem to appreciate that. The fact that the business I had with Frank had carried into that early morning, with my hands batting at myself instead of canvas, with the same thought in my head, the same thought of him...that was irrelevant. No, it was excessively relevant. I wasn't supposed to lust after Frank. I hadn't even intended to lust after Frank. It had just so happened that the model of him in my head had lost the jacket. It was a case study, nothing else. I had to imagine what his figure was like.

Where most art professors would tell you to drill past the skin, down through the muscle and into the skeletal structure, I stayed clinging to his skin. I couldn't move past it, and that just resulted in me moving around in my pants. All those little white flashes of his skin that I knew already mixed with my imaginings of what the rest must be, and before I knew it I had spilled in my sheets. It wasn't funny, and it wasn't hot. It was embarrassing, as I had already mentioned. But it did put me to sleep, even if it wasn't worth much when I woke up in a cold puddle of myself two hours later. I got up and pretended that it hadn't happened. I was under stress. I was delusional. That was the reason for it.

I wasn't developing any attraction to Frank beyond how I normally saw subjects. I couldn't be. I'd never had such a thing happen before.

I returned to thinking of him in aesthetic, pure symmetry and form as I climbed up the stairs, pulling my own backpack over my shoulders as I looked to see my brother's sitting by the door as well. That was odd. He normally bused to school. When I went into the kitchen to grab something to eat (I was abnormally hungry) he was standing in there as well, frowning into a crumb covered plate. Why was he still here? He should've left by now. He would've long since missed the bus. He wasn't sick, he was dressed in uniform and obviously waiting on something. Maybe his girlfriend was coming to pick him up.

"Mikey? Why are you still here? Shouldn't you be at school by now?" I asked, rummaging in the pantry. He looked up to glare at me, rolling his eyes before responding.

"I overslept. No thanks to you coming in and bothering me. Unlike your art shit, mine actually takes time and effort."

I frowned, slamming the peanut butter on the counter in what I hoped was a reflection of my distaste. Again, a perfect example of him understanding absolutely nothing. It didn't take any talent to do what he did. He was no better than a robot. A piece of machinery. No, it was a privilege that I had been given the skills necessary to see Frank, to record that boy on paper. Yet another privilege that some holy combination of XX and XY had slammed together to create Frank in the first place. I hadn't paid much attention in high school biology, hadn't gotten the A+ that my brother's report card gleamed with, but I had picked up on the things that mattered. 

"Do you...need a ride or something?" I asked. He responded with an even darker glare, but I tried to continue to be pleasant. "I know you can't walk, not with the cold and the...long time. The length. From here to there." However much of a shit he may be, he was still an in. This was an opportunity. Though I had only ever attended public school, I wasn't such a moron to not know how busing worked. They were always at school early, the pickup schedule even earlier. If I took him now, we would arrive just when the buses were pulling in, when all of the other parents were dropping off their perfect children and when all of those navy blue blazers were piling up to trickle through the school entrance. The point being, Frank was included in that flow of students. If I dropped off my brother, I could likely see Frank in the mornings. Bright in the haze of dawn, before the day took its toll on him and the late October humidity pushed on his shoulders to force his skin to slide off his bones. Those thin, perfect bones, the china handles on fractured teacups. He'd be perfection coated in morning dew.

"No." he snapped, standing up to dump his dish in the sink as I made my sandwich. 

"Are you sure? It's on my way to my--"

"Absolutely not. I'm not stupid, I know what you're thinking."

"I just want to help you--"

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?" another voice interrupted as our mother stepped into the kitchen. "I'm not having that language in my house, and if you're going to speak like that you can walk. It doesn't belong in my car either." She had never been a morning person, and she didn't look pleased in any way at all. I suppose my brother wasn't so perfect to her after all.

"Sorry..." he muttered, going to pick up his backpack.

"Shouldn't you already be at school?" she said, turning her attention to snap at me. "Your grades are bad enough, I don't see any way that being late could improve them."

My brother smirked, she frowned, and I slumped my shoulders to walk out to my car. The last part of her attack on me had been pointing out that I was blocking her vehicle's ability to move out of the garage, and I sighed as I shoved my key in the ignition. Another hope, dashed. Not only was the opportunity lost, but there was no way I could sneak over to the school now. At least not immediately. I couldn't even catch a glimpse of Frank. The sun would rise higher in the sky, the doors of the school would close, and Frank would be lost to stale eraser shavings until the last bell rang and I would get my usual five minutes of him. I should be satisfied, but I also shouldn't be blamed for wanting to see a change of scenery. To see him outside of that shop, to see him where he spent the other eight hours of his day. 

Or, another eight hours of his day. His house was out of the question to go running after, and impossible to find at that. I didn't even have his last name, so it wasn't as if I could go sniffing through a phonebook. He was just Frank. That was better for aesthetic purposes, to limit him to only five letters and one vowel inside of them. It wasn't better for logistics, of course. Regardless, the day ended with me sitting through the same monotony of schedule, perhaps parallel to Frank's. It made me feel a bit better knowing we were at least a little similar. 

I began to hope that Frank was looking forward to the same daily closure that I was. That maybe he was looking forward to seeing a smudge of my face at the end of the day in the same way that I was looking forward to seeing his. But that wasn't the case. I waited and waited that afternoon, and he never even showed up.

The only sight I got of Frank that day was a repeat of the mental movie from last night. A film accompanying more fondling of myself in the same early hours in the morning. I hadn't meant to. I really hadn't meant to.


	10. Chapter 10

It was convenient that one of my classes was cancelled tomorrow. Convenient, especially, that it was around the lunch hour. Noon was common enough for public schools to take their lunch. I had thought this through last night, while working on a drawing. The drawing completed itself before I acted on any urges. I assure you that. I wasn't so caught up in this new problem that the real priorities were being pushed aside. Frank on paper was more important than Frank in my head, I assure you that. Frank on paper could be shared with everyone, and that was the important part. That was the purpose of any art, to show the world the beauty in the everyday. Or the surreal, but even Dali threw clocks in his deserts. Everyone had a clock. Everyone worked around a schedule.

Schedule was to my advantage, as 11:56 lit up on my car's dashboard clock. It was the most modern feature my 1990 something Toyota Camry had, besides dents that it had been nailed with in the last year. It would take me about ten minutes to get to the school, and I shut the radio off once I started my car. I had to listen to the outside. I wasn't sure what I was listening for. I wasn't guilty of skipping school, but the paranoia of high school settings still lingered. As someone who had missed a lot of afternoon classes in my senior year, I couldn't be blamed. I stopped once I got caught. I had to stop--the car was taken from me once I was found out. But now I was an adult, and the class I cut was just making me a better person. Forget the studio hours and their blank walls. I needed to see Frank in the open.

Assuming Frank took a normal lunch hour, and running off the packs of cigarettes I had seen in the pockets of him and his friends, he could, and should be outside around this time. It was simply a matter of finding out where. I found the school easily enough, and took to slowly circling it. If anyone asked what I was doing, I could say I needed to speak to my brother about something. The last name on my driver's license was all the necessary proof that we were related. Though we didn't look alike, didn't act alike, a surname was more proof than any traits of personality or appearance. I had an alibi. I wasn't the neighborhood pedophile.

Frank couldn't be that much younger than me. He had to be at least a junior. He was small in stature, certainly, but fourteen year olds didn't look like that. Fifteen year olds didn't look that. 

I had never touched him, never would touch him, but I had to at least reassure myself with the fact that sixteen was the legal Jersey age of consent.

It was justification for last night. The night before.

No. No, I didn't have anything to apologize for. I just appreciated him. There was nothing wrong with appreciating him. I had to envision him in all appearances, in all situations, let him touch all corners of my mind in order to understand him enough to draw him. That was why I had never succeeded with the art of anyone else. Not like I was succeeding with Frank. The criticism from my professors was worth something. Hell, even my moronic peers appreciated it. It was proof that my approach to him was working. However thorough it may be was irrelevant. 

I was two times around and I still hadn't caught any sight of him. There were other delinquents, of course. But none with his face, his hair that stank of rebellion without even a cloud of cigarette smoke to boost the image. I wish I could smell him again. The students were starting to stare at me now, as I made my third round by their haunts. I didn't see my brother, just a lot of angry girls in plaid skirts scowling out of pudding cups and bad dye jobs. I was surprised the blue-and-dishwater-blonde combination was allowed at a Catholic school. Maybe things had changed since I was in high school. Maybe they were just different from teen movies. But if this was a movie, I should have seen Frank around.

I pulled my car to a stop, slumping my head down in an illegal parallel-parking spot. My hood was tugged up over my head. I wasn't that stupid. It would be awful if anyone saw too much of my face. My license plate on display was bad enough. But again, I had an alibi. I had my brother. Looking out the window again, I focused wistfully on a blank patch of brick on the building, next to the dumpster. It looked like the perfect place my small ghost of Frank would haunt. If I squinted I could almost see him standing there, puffing smoke into the cold air and slouching against the school.

Snapped out of my imaginings, I saw my brother's face in the window. He was banging on the glass, growing louder by the minute. I suppose it was because I hadn't noticed the first few times. I didn't know how long he'd been hitting, or how long I'd been parked there. He looked angry, looked like he was trying to cover his face with his hunched shoulders. He was looking around as he pounded. I guess he hoped no one would notice him around, talking to me. Once he saw that I was looking at him, he spit my name against the window, eyes wide and angry. Sense kicked in, and I rolled down the window to look up at him.

"Gerard, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What...what do you mean?"

"Circling around the fucking school? God, I hoped that I could fucking ignore you. And then I saw you fucking parked. Fucking staring. Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I...uh, Mom needed me to...uh..."

"Oh god, this is the shit from last night, isn't it? You're looking for...oh, Jesus Christ. This is last year all over again. Your crazy shit. Great." he said, pushing himself off the edge of the car window and shoving his hands in his pockets. "I came over here because I knew it was your creepy ass, but you know what I told everyone else? I told them it was my job as junior class president to make sure no unsavory characters were on school grounds. And you know what? It is. And that's exactly what you are. Whatever....child you're running after, you need to stop right now. You're nineteen. You're in college. An adult. In case you weren't aware, whatever you want to do here is illegal. You're a fucking predator."

"Don't take it that far." I snapped. "I was just looking for this one..."

"You shouldn't be looking for anyone. It's not right. God, Gerard, you're not right in the fucking head. I'm asking...ugh, I'm asking as your brother. Go home. I'm trying to cover your ass. Anyone else would call the police. So here, here's your ultimatum. Go home before I stop being your brother and I start doing what's right. Which does include calling the cops."

I tried to glare at my brother, but he was staring me down too hard. Somehow, despite being two years younger than me, he had managed that imposing parental look to perfection. He looked just like Mom and Dad. And understood just as well. I turned my head to look down, the constant omega of the family pack. I always got kicked around, reprimanded, the sharp words and the sharper looks. It wasn't fair. I started the ignition and began to drive away, face still tipped down to the floor. I looked in the mirror, and Mikey was gone. He hadn't even taken the time out of his busy schedule to make sure I obeyed him. I wasn't even good enough for that. He didn't even have to worry that I might have the nerve to disobey him--him, the younger brother! And of course, the worst part was that he was absolutely right.


	11. Chapter 11

I started driving away from the school, no real sense of direction available to me. I was upset at my brother, but more upset at the loss of opportunity. I wasn't thinking of rosy red stoplights, stop signs, just the cheeks that I was missing. It was so cold, he'd be so flushed. Chapped, upset, bleeding out of contracting skin. Nothing so bad, just a little bit. Just a little here and there. Knowing him, he'd spit it out all over the pavement, and maybe it would hit my sneakers. I only saw the red of the actual stoplight a second before I would've had a ticket in my hand, slamming on the brakes and snapping my neck forward. Traffic laws were the most idiotic thing in existence. There weren't even any cars coming. I should just be able to rely on common sense..

 

It was the same thing with Frank, and consequently Mikey. He didn't have any business poking around where he wasn't needed. I coasted on instinct in my art, and in my trailing of Frank. I couldn't track his scent (unfortunately), but I could come close enough to know where to look for him. Even the way I was driving right now was instinct. I'd be damned if I was actually thinking about where I was going. I was too mad. I was angry. Not only was there the way that Mikey had embarrassed me, but there was also the whole issue of how I had missed Frank in the first place. That was the worst thing. It was an empty box on Christmas morning.

 

Breaking out of my chronic emotional turmoil, I looked up to see a parking meter in front of me, realizing that my hands on the wheel and foot on the gas had led me to my usual haunt. The deli, of course. I supposed I could wait there until school let out. Frank would be here eventually. I could knock out some mundane still life homework while I was at it. I could draw cans of soda, or whatever stupid little mementos of monotony in daily life that were so important to document in charcoal and pencil. No one really magnificent had ever spent their afternoons sketching out wrinkles in a bag of potato chips. It was frustratingly mundane. 

 

I opened the door, prepared to subject myself to sore hands and boring blank pages being filled to be even duller. But getting inside, I nearly stopped in the doorway. Frank was here. Sitting in the back, sitting around a load of tables pushed together, were those punk rats Frank liked to associate with. But wedged between a blue haired boy and a girl with staples in her lips, was Frank. Frank with shit smeared around his eyes, black charcoal that I could've lent him if he wanted, making that pale white of his face even lighter. He looked like a little skull boy. He had his usual sweatshirt on him, but it was unzipped to show off some scratchy logo on a black t-shirt. That was out of uniform. Frank was completely out of uniform and, notably, out of school as well. That's why I had missed him. He hadn't even been there today.

 

"Whatchoo lookin' at, aspie?" one of the kids shouted. He was greasy haired and pimpled, with a big smile poking out of crusty lips. His braces flashed in the light, and Frank laughed beside him. I ducked my head and went to sit down, clumsily opening my backpack and dumping a book on the table. I tried to hide my face in it, darting my eyes up in between every word I pretended to read to look over at. Frank was laughing loudly, talking loudly, and I could hear all of the inflections in his voice that I had missed out on before. His voice was high, somewhat nasally, almost squeaky in some spots. He was excited, and it showed in how loud he was being. Everyone else at the table was gawking at him, and he was beaming. I wish I had the permission they did to ogle him in such a way. Even from my distance, even with their interest, I was hanging on to his every word far more than they were.

 

"So Frankie, are you going to Jake's party on Halloween?"

 

"Hell fucking yes I am. Gonna blow off Mom and Dad--oh wait! I don't fuckin' need to, because they're out of town as usual!"

 

"You're so fuckin' lucky, man. Your parents are never fuckin' home."

 

"Yeah, real fuckin' lucky. They don't even give a shit about me on my birthday."

 

"Huh?"

 

"Yeah, Halloween's my birthday. Dude, you didn't know that?"

 

"Aaaw, no way! That's so fuckin' cool!"

 

"I'm gonna be fifteen whole years old, so suck on _that_."

 

"Oh man, you're soooooo old. Little shit."

 

"Hey, fuck you. I'm mature for my age."

 

"Yeah right, tell that to the booger streaks on your hoodie sleeves."

 

"Fuck you!"

 

I wished I could stare over at them, instead of only being able to see Frank jump up and start playfully beating his friend out of the corner of my eye. Fifteen years old. Not even fifteen yet. Fourteen. That meant he was a freshman. It made sense that my brother didn't know him, Mikey was a junior. And I was graduated. A freshman in my own right, just at a different level. Frank was younger than I had thought, and a sick sort of feeling in my guts stirred. No, it didn't matter. It was only four years. Well, four and a half. That wasn't....so much. It could be worse. It could certainly be worse.

 

"Ah, shit. I gotta get back to school."

 

"School? Really? You're going to _school_?"

 

"Yeah, you skipped. The hell, man?"

 

"Fuck you guys, I have a math test!"

 

"Better put your polo shirt back in!"

 

"Get your fuckin' rosary!"

 

"Fuck off! I didn't want to go to private school!"

 

"Ha, maybe you shouldn't have gotten in so much trouble at public!"

 

"You guys are just jealous." Frank was grinning, tugging on a polo shirt over the black t-shirt he was already wearing. You could barely notice that the undershirt was there. But I knew. I could tell. The navy of the uniform looked good on him. It brought out the brown in his eyes. He pushed his head through the collar of his shirt, shaking his head and looking around after he came up. He saw me. Our eyes met, and it was another holy moment of being blessed with his attention. The camera flash of his whites, the shutter shock of his eyelids sent the image of me upstairs in direction to his brain. And I would stay there. Maybe not as long as he'd stay in mine, though. No, no. Definitely not as long as he'd stay in mine. 

 

"You like what you see, huh baby?" he hollered in my direction. His friends howled and laughed and I shoved my face back down into the book I was feigning to read. He had just called me out. He had _spoken_ to me. And he had said....said _that_. He knew I had been looking at him. Of course I liked what I saw. How could I not? He was made of marble, for Christ's sake. And for that same Christ's sake, that Christ got to see him more than I did. For every time that school must make Frank bow his head over hands in a pew, he was being observed by some dead holy effigy. Oh, how I wish I could be crucified, too. It must be a wonderful thing to stare out of those dead-painted eyes when your empty gaze is resting on Frank. How I envied Jesus.

 

"God, that guy's such a fucking freak."

 

"He's always fuckin' here, too."

 

"You gonna say anything? You gonna give our Frankie an answer?"

 

I didn't say anything. I continued to sit. No one ever talked to me this much at once before. I wanted to escape. I wanted to leave, to go to my car and go home, but I couldn't. I could only swim in paragraphs I didn't care about, waiting to hear another word from Frank. I didn't care what he might say about me, just so long as he said something. His voice was a rare and magnificent thing to hear.

 

"Whatever, man. I don't have time to wait on some retard." There he was. Frank again.

 

"I'm going back to school now, so....catch you assholes later."

 

"And hey! Party soon!"

 

"Fuck yeah, party soon! Happy Halloween and happy birthday to me!"

 

"Get outta here, it's a fucking national holiday!"

 

"And it's all for me!" That was the last thing he laughed before he left the building. The others had forgotten me, returning to talk amongst themselves. I waited a few minutes, but then grabbed the book that had been collecting dust in front of me, grabbed my backpack, and bolted. I heard them notice my departure, heard them laugh behind me. But it got lost in the wind outside as I pushed through its gusts to my car. I jammed the key into the ignition as quickly as I could, turned up the heat, and drove home. I wasn't going to be out in this shitty weather for any longer. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

I drove home, nearly tripping over the pumpkin on our porch as I shoved my keys into the door, the screen door banging against my hip. It was almost Halloween. In all of the business I had experienced over the past few weeks, I hadn't been keeping track of the calendar. But Halloween was no longer just a day for candy and ghosts. It was more significant than any other day on the calendar now, because it was Frank's birthday. The day that swollen little infant must have spilled out of his mother in a wash of placenta and blood, spitting and screaming as he came. I bet he had been a firecracker from the first minute of his life.

 

I suppose I should've been hurt by what Frank had said earlier. But it wasn't any fault of Frank, only the fault of those friends of his. He was trying to put on a show. He could've said anything else to me, he could've told me to fuck off, or bug off, or stop staring or anything else. But he had almost encouraged me to respond to him. He had even thrown in the "baby." That was laughable. Calling me that, when he was so much younger than me. Fourteen years old. He was the real baby. But two more days, then he'd be fifteen. A round, strong five to follow his one. Four was such an infantile number. It reeked of being a novice, of being green. Even twenty-four sounded babyish. But I wasn't there yet, and wouldn't be for at least a little while longer. I was still close enough to Frank.

 

There were large bags of candy sitting on the counter, and I wondered just how out of it I had been lately. So much time had passed, and it was if I hadn't even been conscious for the bulk of it. I inspected the bags, trying to see if any were open. No good. Mom always kept them closed to prevent us sneaking in them for snacks and leaving the trick-or-treaters empty. Well, it had always been more for me than Mikey. He barely even ate sweets anymore. Too rigid.

 

"You really want to?" There was Mikey now. I guess school was out at this point. I had certainly taken my time driving home, and I had also stopped at the store to pick up more art supplies on the way. I had needed to cool down from the situation that had happened earlier, and it had taken a bit of time. Earlier had been awful. Not Frank, just those friends of his. Stupid punks. He wouldn't be so snarky if he didn't stick around them so much. His eyes were too warm for them.

 

"I don't know, it's....oh, it's Friday this year? Sorry, I hadn't been keeping up." Mikey was on the phone. "Well, yeah, I'll go...I guess. Will you pick me up? No? The he--oh. Oh, shit. Your car's in the shop again? Shit. No, I don't know if I can borrow Gerard's...ha, yeah, you're right. He never does shit. He won't be using it."

 

Oh, so he was on the phone with his girlfriend. And it sounded as if he was talking about Halloween. A Halloween party. No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be truth, couldn't be coincidence. I strained my ears, listening for more details.

 

"So where is it? Jake's? Oh, shit, Alicia, I don't really....no, no, I'll go. I know you want to."

 

Jake. That same name I had heard earlier. With Frank's friends. My hands were shaking on the countertop.

 

"So I'll see you tonight? Yeah, I can borrow the car tonight for sure. All right. I'll see you then...Love you too, baby. Bye."

 

I held tight to the edge of the countertop, chewing my lip as I processed the information. The party was on Halloween. Two days from now. Mikey's girlfriend's car was broken. Mikey needed a ride. They were going to the party. Frank was going to the party. The car was technically mine. Mom and Dad weren't home, so he couldn't ask them. They worked all the time. I was home. I was in college. I could say I had an obligation, some emergency lecture, some studio session, some conference, anything. I could say I needed the car. I could attend the party with Mikey and Alicia. Frank would be there. I could see Frank. Frank, outside of school, outside of the deli, in a place he assuredly wanted to be. And it was his birthday. He would be at his finest. Things were lining up so well. So, so well.

 

Mikey came into the kitchen, rolling his eyes with disgust as soon as he saw me.

 

"Are you going to creep around the house now, too?"

 

"Huh? I was just...um, getting..."

 

"You better not be a creep to the kids on Halloween, Gerard."

 

"Wh--"

 

"You're trailing high schoolers, who the hell can say that you won't go after the elementary schoolers next. God, what the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

 

"I told you, Mom sent me to school to see--"

 

"That's not going to work on me. I know what you were there for."

 

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

 

"Then what did you mean to do, Gerard? I don't care if you were just there to....to watch this kid, or look at him, or whatever the hell you do. It's not okay. You're nineteen. You can't just...just...do the shit you did in high school and not expect to get any repercussions for it. You're an adult. Things are different. And they're especially different when _kids_ are involved."

 

"He's not a kid."

 

"Whoever he is, if he attends a high school, he is _off limits_. Find someone else to draw, okay? There are plenty of people you could see at your school. Just sit on a bench or something. Or, better yet, go online. Then no one will get hurt by your weird shit."

 

"You don't understand!"

 

"And I don't want to understand! God, I never want to understand whatever the hell goes through your sick head. It's not okay. It just isn't. You need...help or something. This weird obsessive thing you do, it's not _normal_ , okay? You need to stop. You just need to cut it out."

 

I stared at the tile on the kitchen floor. He was wrong. I couldn't cut it out any easier than he could quit studying. It was a part of my livelihood. Even my future career, if you wanted to go that far. Before Frank, I had been a failure. I hadn't created anything worthwhile in the gap between the time I left high school and the time I met Frank. And since meeting Frank, I had made art I had never even fathomed I could have the potential to create. I needed Frank. I needed to see him in every possible setting that I could, and if Mikey was too ignorant to understand then that was his problem. Not mine.

 

"I have...work to do. I'm...going." I stuttered in an attempt at putting my foot down. 

 

All I really did was skitter down to the basement, though. I had sweaters to draw, even themed artwork. Frank in monster costumes, Frank as a hero being mobbed by devils and ghouls. It was a sly attempt at symbolism. Those friends of his were scum. Frank looked good next to orange, surrounded in misty purple chalk-pastel hazes. Frank looked good, period. I remembered my homework at the last minute that night, and wound up staying awake past four in the morning to finish it. It was a landscape assignment, and the teacher had even asked for a "spooky touch." To make it illustrative, some sort of themed, children's-book type picture. It was supposed to give us experience in different "career paths" of art. The only career I had in mind was documenting Frank. I was a day-by-day historian, Frank's minute life being documented in the diary of my head. 

 

The piece I wound up turning in the next day was a cryptic, spooky house. Scary, Halloween-style, whatever. But it looked very much like one of the houses on my block, simply riddled with black cats and cobwebs, all of the things the holiday was associated with. It was certainly appropriate for the assignment, and I was particularly proud of my use of color. The new supplies I had picked up were serving me excellently. The most important part of the pice, however, was Frank's small face just barely peering out of one of the top windows. It was what I hoped to see for myself on Hallow's Eve. I'd find the house this party was at, and get there through the elusive door of my hateful brother. He was causing me more help than harm, and I smirked to myself at the thought. I'd see Frank in that window. And maybe he'd even light up with a jack o' lantern smile when he saw me. Things were going so well right now. So, so well. 

 

I hadn't anticipated a holiday this much since Christmas seven years ago. But this wasn't some corporate-sponsored Jesus birthday bash. The candy being sold, the ghost costumes weren't so important. It wasn't a holiday to celebrate the spirits. It was Frank's birthday. That was the real bash. And it was going to be the best holiday I had ever celebrated, or had the pleasure to experience. I was sure of it.

 

I couldn't wait.


	13. Chapter 13

 

"Gerard. I need the car tonight, so drop the keys off for me once you get home from school today, okay?"

 

"Uh, can't. I have studio hours tonight."

 

"Bullshit, you've been skipping those all semester."

 

"Yeah, and that's...that's why I need to go tonight."

 

"Do your finger painting in your room. I need the car. Seriously."

 

"No, Mikey, I need it. I really have to go to this tonight."

 

Mikey slammed the box of cereal on the counter angrily, shoving his glasses up on his nose and scratching at his short hair. He was frowning, and appeared to be chewing on his cheeks. The two biggest warning signs for his boiling point, which he was obviously creeping closer to. I didn't care if he blew up at me. It was all part of the plan.

 

"I'm not shitting you, Gerard. I _need_ the car."

 

"Well, it's my car. And my school is more important."

 

"You don't even give a shit about school."

 

"Well, maybe I'm starting to."

 

"Well, maybe you should've started caring sooner."

 

"What is it this time, boys?" My mother entered the kitchen, sighing into a blue mug of coffee. She was obviously irritated, as she always was whenever a fight between us would interrupt her morning rituals. We were probably drowning out the TV.

 

"Gerard won't let me use the car tonight!"

 

"I need it to get to school!"

 

"He always gets the car, and never goes to school! It's not fair!"

 

"Well, what do you need it for, Mikey?"

 

"I....I have a party to go to. It's Halloween. Normal people tend to go out, you know. With _friends_." He glared at me, obviously trying to hit something inside of me, to set me off or hurt my feelings or something. It wasn't going to work.

 

"I have school." I said. "My professor is hosting a Halloween studio, we're going to a graveyard and doing scratchings. It's extra credit, and uh, I really need it."

 

"Got that right." my mother sighed, pouring more coffee into her cup and stirring in sugar. "Mikey, can't Alicia drive you? Like she normally does?"

 

"Her car is broken."

 

"Do you have anyone else who can pick you up?"

 

"No one else has actual licenses...." he mumbled. "Alicia and I are the only ones in our group of friends who have turned seventeen. So everyone else only has those...operator's permit...whatever. They can only take one passenger besides themselves."

 

"Ah."

 

"So can I borrow the car?"

 

"Mom, please. I really need this for my grade."

 

My mother cut in front of Mikey, reaching for the milk he had left sitting by his abandoned bowl of cereal. Pouring it into her cup, making her usual "white coffee", sighing heavily again. "Well, I hate to punish you for things that aren't your fault, Mikey, but....Gerard needs all the help he can get in school. You're going to have to have him drop you and Alicia off."

 

"What?! Mom, that's not fair! Why can't I drop him off?!"

 

"Because he'll probably be finished before you. I know those parties go late."

 

"Mom--"

 

"I'll make it up to you. You can have the car all weekend, how about that?"

 

"That's not--"

 

"That's all I can offer. I'm sorry."

 

Mikey sighed, spouting off a "whatever" before he stomped off up to his room.

 

"If you act like that, you won't be going at all!" my mother yelled up at him. "And Gerard, you had better try real damn hard at that...extra credit, whatever you have tonight. Your father and I can cut off funding for you anytime you want. You don't have to go to school. You can get a job and just do that."

 

"I know..." I mumbled. I tried to look dejected as best as I could, letting my hair fall in my face. I was throwing a party in my head. The plan had worked. It had succeeded, come to fruition, it had been effective in every way I had intended it to. "I'll try hard Mom, okay?"

 

She smiled. "I know you can do it, honey. It's been a rough first semester, but...that's pretty typical for students. And haven't your grades been coming up?"

 

"Yeah! I turned in some old work and did really good on the past few tests...I have B's in all my classes now." It was true. I was sleeping less and less, and the late nights gave me a lot of time to study. So did waiting on Frank every day. My mother smiled.

 

"That's great, honey. Now, you had better leave before you're late and they start to slip again." She kissed me on the cheek and patted my shoulder. "I know you can do it. Just keep trying."

 

I smiled at her, nodding and then rushing out the door. My car keys jangled in my pocket, and I had never been so happy for them in my life. Everything was going perfectly according to plan.


	14. Chapter 14

This, only somewhat surprisingly, was the first high school party I had ever attended. I probably should've tacked it to the end of my short to-do list while I was still in high school, but I had been busy. My list had been short then, but important. Things had changed. I had more to do now, and all for the mightier cause. My brother's girlfriend had arrived at nine o'clock sharp, and I didn't think that high schoolers would be so prompt in their party preparations. Maybe being "fashionably late" wasn't so fashionable anymore. I had grinned at her, asking enthusiastically about the party before Mikey came downstairs and glared me away. He apologized to her for the situation, whispering "and my brother" after he finished the initial sentiment. He was at least trying to keep me from hearing, his urge to be polite overriding whatever resentment he felt towards me.

 

I'm sure he had seen Frank around school before, even if he didn't consciously know Frank was the one I was conducting a study of. And, buried in the subconsciousness of his mentality, the instinctual appreciation for art that had to be somewhere in his humanity, I was sure he was jealous. That's why he was so bitter. The girl he was courting--Amanda? Alexis? Ashley? Something with an A, I couldn't remember. She wasn't very pretty. Too much makeup, dressed like a harlot. I could see her cleavage, her midriff. It was unpleasant to see. She looked ill, her very existence gave the impression of being sick. Too skinny, too white. She was white in an unhealthy way, like lukewarm milk. She didn't beam like Frank. Frank was like the moon. The moon absorbs the sun and reflects off all of its light, and the whole world reflects off of Frank.

 

I chewed on my lip as I checked the rearview mirror, bit at my nails as I drove down the street, dropping down an "okay" to every direction my brother gave me. I memorized the route, tucking it in my mind. This Jake hosting the party was a friend of Frank's. A friend of Frank was a friend with a house, and Frank could potentially be at that house anytime. Times other than tonight, when he was guaranteed to be there. He had confirmed it. I was on the way, the arrowheads of our paths ready to collide at the tip. Mikey wouldn't know I was planning on staying.

 

As he and his girlfriend hurried out of the backseat, I waved goodbye to them. They didn't respond, only rushed into the house. I drove down to the convenience store a few blocks away, wasting my time with magazines and potato chips. The grease on my fingers slid off onto the wheel as I returned to my car, willing not to speed as the burning inside my guts intensified, flipping over every second. I was seeing Frank tonight. I was going to see Frank at the very second that his life turned over, from fourteen to fifteen. It was a small moment in his history, and I got to witness it. It was a privilege that the professors of today would feel at the turning over of B.C. to A.D. Before Frank to After Frank, that was a more important shift. At least in my life.

 

Christ had never looked as good as Frank. There were millions of paintings of Christ, so I guess he had the same effect on others that Frank had on me. I couldn't see Jesus frequenting this party, though. Parking on the street in front of the house, turning off my lights and stopping the car, my vehicle blended in with the multitude of others stalled around it. There weren't that many, and it seemed by the large amount of teenagers I saw running around the house and shrieking that a lot of carpooling had been involved. There was garbage on the lawn everywhere already, lit up dimly from the light streaming out of the open windows. It was yellow, without the orange that Halloween ought to merit. This house was closer to the edge of town, and there weren't any trick or treating children out. It was too late, I supposed. I was still marveling at how easily my mother had purchased my lie. Even in an art class, a "special session" would never be held this late, or on a holiday in the first place.

 

I squinted out of my window, fighting the glare on the glass and the darkness outside. I saw plenty of girls, all in various states of dishevelment and undress. They were never walking, always either running around or huddled in groups talking. They weren't important. I paid more attention to the boys chasing them, because Frank could be in pursuit at the moment. There were plenty of boys, but they were walking more than the girls. They were assertive, confident in their strides. Posture was easily seen, even post-twilight. They were all too thick, though, too tall. Athletes. Strong boys who were going to build strong lives for themselves. I wasn't interested in them. They weren't the type I had ever seen Frank around. There were so many bodies running in the dark, but none were what I was looking for. The shiny, scanty clothes, the complete disregard for Halloween costumes and preference for regular "party clothes"--was that what they were called?--should have made it easier to find Frank, but of course there was no sight of him.

 

I nearly smacked my face against the window when I saw a familiar dyed mohawk, followed by a shorter mop of fluorescent hair. Those kids, those punks that were friends with Frank. They were hunched over, slouching as they shuffled across the grass, heads close together and talking. They looked around every few moments, seeming to search for more delinquents of their kind as opposed to the daddy's girls and football stars. My eyes widened hungrily, waiting for them to notice Frank in some shadow, to drag him out. I still hadn't seen Frank. I hadn't seen even a hint of him, and he wasn't hard to miss or mistake. I would know him from a mile away in pitch dark. I could tell. I could pick him out of any row.

 

Those two kids threw down their cups, crumpling red plastic in their hands as they contributed to the growing litter of utensils and booze spread out on the lawn. They walked inside, pushing open the screen door and almost getting barreled over by a crowd of crying girls that came running out at the same moment. It was fascinating, the female fascination with makeup, only to let it all melt away in hysterics. It was the paint that collected at the bottom of a jar after the brushes were scraped clean of it, that's what their faces reminded me of. The night had dragged on. It was already past midnight. I had peered at face after face, assessed height after height and build after build, trying to pull out Frank from the masses. But wherever he was hiding, he remained hidden.

 

My stomach growled. I was starving. The potato chips had been all I had eaten that day, and they had long since worn off. There had to be food inside, but I didn't want to risk my brother seeing me. I leaned against the window, my eyes sore from trying not to blink, and my mouth fogged up the glass. It was cold inside my car, and my hands were going numb. Three sweatshirts hadn't sufficed, because the rest of me was getting numb, too. I wasn't sure how all of those kids could stand the cold. They were wearing far less than I was. Even the boys were wearing t-shirts, not always with jackets. Maybe all of the obvious alcohol consumption made them a little warmer. I bet the inside of the house was warm, packed with bodies whose shadows marred the living room lights pouring out. Frank could be packed inside one of those huddles, trying to wrap other people's fat around his skinny bones.

 

Mikey was probably in a room with his girlfriend. That's what kids did at these parties, I had watched some movies in preparation for this evening. They picked bedrooms and fornicated. My brother may be a star student, but he was still a male. I had seen the way he was leering at whatsername earlier. He wanted to touch her. He probably was right now. And he was all that was stopping me. These kids weren't from my school, and half of them--probably more than half--were drunk beyond repair for a few more hours. I wouldn't be recognized if I went in. I was shutting the door of my car, locking it, and rocking back and forth in my sneakers on the sidewalk. I'd be perfectly alright. I walked up the drive and was ensconced in the noise of music, the mess of toilet paper and spilled booze, the adolescent pollution of a clear and cold night.

 

The porch was creaky, and there were couples feeling each other up in both of its corners. I stumbled through the door and into a louder mass of writhing bodies, getting knocked into from every angle as they made their way from point A to point B, all journeys dirty and stinking of sweat and something else, something skunky. I didn't recognize it, but it was foul. The kitchen should be a popular enough area, but it was deserted when I finally found it. There were mostly-empty bowls of chips all over the counter, puddles of soda drying on the floor. I could see where they had raided their parent's alcohol stash, as well as the cardboard bags and boxes that additional booze had been carried in with. There was a half-eaten cake on the counter as well, crumbs scattered everywhere around it and a knife sticking out of its center. It was a half-grinning jack-o-lantern, of course.

 

I picked up a piece, orange frosting smearing on my fingers as I shoved it into my mouth, devouring it while my eyes scanned all of the people passing by. Still no Frank. I grabbed another piece of the cake, eating just as mindlessly, biting my own tongue in the middle of my frenzied chewing. Standing and watching would do me no good. I had been watching for hours and gotten nothing out of it. If I wanted Frank, I would have to find him. I had always been chastised in high school for lacking a "can-do" attitude. I was at a high school party, I may as well treat it as my time machine, my second chance and my grand new opportunity. I wiped my hands off on a paper towel, dropping it on the already messy floor, and shoved my hands in my pockets to go off in search of Frank.

 

I now understood why so little clothing was worn at these parties. It was sweltering inside. There were too many bodies and too much movement, too many people to step over with all the space they were cluttering. I would take off a layer, but I had nowhere to stash it. The hoodie closest to my skin was the one from that day when Frank had bumped against me. I hadn't washed it. It was a lucky charm in a sense. It was proof I could make contact with him, proof that some higher power was urging us to exist simultaneously. But he wasn't in the living room, wasn't in the kitchen. He wasn't hiding in the trash piled up in the dining room, nor was he in line at either of the bathrooms. The basement was packed, and I spent a considerable amount of time pushing through people to try and pull his face out of the flashing lights, trying to pick up a shout of his over the blast of the music. After so many rounds down there, circling and circling, searching and finding nothing, I repeated my route on the main level. I tugged my hood over my head, ducking down as I ran up the stairs and did a quick runthrough of the upstairs. It was full of locked bedrooms. I was right, these parties were just like the movies.

 

I was on my way downstairs when my phone went off in my pocket. I pulled it out, seeing my brother's name on the screen before I bolted out the door of the house, shoving past everyone who had pushed me around before. I heaved as I wrenched open my car door, starting the car and speeding down the street as fast as I could. Pulling into some parking lot, I opened up my phone to read the message Mikey had sent me.

 

"Going to be ready to leave in 10min. Come get me when youre done with your thing."

 

I sighed in relief. He was probably picking his pants off the floor of whatever bedroom he had locked himself in. He had to have been in one, I hadn't seen him anywhere else in the house. Obviously, he hadn't seen me either. The tone of the message would have been far different. He would've told me. Actually, he would have run after me as soon as he spotted me at the party. I texted him back, saying I was already done, that I had been waiting at the convenience store and reading. I would be there in a minute. I leaned my head back against the headrest of the car, sighing. Frank hadn't been there. I halfheartedly started my car, driving back to the house. Maybe I could still catch him, maybe I would finally see his face as the night concluded. There was still a little bit of a chance.

 

But no, there hadn't been a chance at all. I pulled up to the house again, in the same space I had so hastily evacuated before. Mikey and his girlfriend were already waiting, tumbling into my backseat. They were loud, elated, messy and sweaty. This was obviously their post-coital celebration. They urged me to speed home, saying it was past Alicia's curfew. I guess that was her name. I didn't care. She looked worse than she had before, all of her makeup rubbed off. Her eyes were black and my brother's mouth was red. I squinted at her reflection in my rearview mirror, packed with more animosity from before. I bet Frank had been at the party earlier. It was her that had made us late, the party was already well underway once we had gotten there. And then once we had gotten there, I had spent too much time waiting outside in my car for fear of encountering her or my brother inside. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that they got everything they wanted from each other when I was left with nothing.

 

She left, and my brother and I drove home in silence. I tossed the keys to him once we were inside, mumbling about how I didn't need the car tomorrow. He didn't catch them. He was too drunk, and he slurred a "thanks" as he picked them up off the ground and waddled upstairs to his room. I stomped down to my basement, sagging onto my bed. I glared at the drawings of Frank in Halloween attire I had so excitedly drawn before, lying on the floor now, and rolled over to face the wall. I didn't want to think right now, much less draw. I wish I had been given the luxury of alcohol tonight that my brother had enjoyed, because I was huddled up against that cold, grimy wall for a long time before I was finally able to fall asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

The next week proved to be the worst of my entire life. Worse than the time I had strep throat in ninth grade, or the stomach flu in sixth. At least those had simply been physical maladies. This week, I had been sick. Sick with longing, sick with worry, and generally ill. I couldn't sleep, and my stomach was shaking all the time. I had thrown up twice. I barely ate. My head was throbbing all the time, and my eyes were watery and itchy. I had gone to school every day, despite all of this, and taken my usual time to wait at the deli in hopes of Frank. 

The reason for my sickness was because of Frank, of course. It was worry. Paranoia. I hadn't seen him in an entire week. Not since he had alluded to attendance of the Halloween party. He hadn't been there, at least not at the same time I had. But he also hadn't been at the deli for a week. He had been gone times before, but never for this long. My nails were gone from me biting them off. I couldn't draw, not with him missing like this, and it wasn't for lack of trying. I typed out mindless essays for my other classes, got on track with all my homework. I had plenty of time, at least when I wasn't tossing and turning in bed, staring at the ceiling to try and picture his face. I didn't remember it well enough. That was what usually triggered the vomit, the idea of him dissipating from my mind's eye. I couldn't deal with it. I couldn't deal with Frank being gone.

All I could picture were all the things that could have happened to him, and around Thursday, when all possible homework had been completed and I had absolutely nothing to numb my mind with anymore, I started drawing again. Frank's face was only clouded, and there was more color than anything else. Outside of his usual browns and reds, pinks and grays, there was an influx of orange. Car crashes, house fires, encounters with explosions, those were simply the worst things that could've happened to him. Fire was the cause of all the most gruesome deaths, and I had been constantly watching the local news to see if there had been any in the area. It never told me anything, but that didn't stop me from worrying.

Besides orange, there was blue. Water may be more commonly accepted than fire, but that didn't make it less dangerous. I didn't know if Frank could swim or not. It was likely that he was incapable. There were ponds, lakes, rivers, even the sea. He could've wandered far out enough to the shore, in a drunken nighttime outing with some of those blasted friends of his. He could have fallen in a swimming pool, or even slipped in the shower and hit his head. He could have simply been dumped in a body of water after being murdered in some other way. There were so many colors that were available to depict so many horrible options.

Red, for example. Red for the knives that could've been shoved between his fragile ribs, twisted around in the soft meat of his stomach. Not that the knives were red, the point was that a lot of blood would spill out. There were plenty of gangs in the area, and plenty of fights had broken out on Halloween, surely. Frank could've been an innocent victim to any of those awful people. They could've cut him open, left him to try and shove his intestines back inside of his split stomach. They could've slit his throat, or slit him in any other place to just let him bleed out. If you cut someone enough, they'll die. It's a matter of blood loss. 

Maybe it wasn't even a knife. Maybe there were guns involved. Guns and knives were always a combination of silver and black, gray and ebony, dirty snow and burnt charcoal. However you wanted to phrase it, those were the colors of death, those gray and black shades. Gray for the skin of corpses, black for when you shut your eyes that last time. He could've been held at gunpoint, made to plea for mercy and beg for his life, or just shot outright. His brains, his heart could be splattered on some sidewalk. And his body, his perfect body, might just be in a dumpster. In a ditch. That's what I was drawing right now. I was cooped up in my room, another night to no fruition as I came home to sit alone, scribbling brown and green down on the paper. It was the woods. The woods were nice, a great place. Except when there were decimated bodies lying among the posies. I shoved the sketchbook away and dropped my head onto my desk. I was crying. It wasn't embarrassing. I just missed him. I was so worried about him.

I had seen his friends around, at least a little bit. They kept to themselves, leaving me alone. It made me think more that something might have happened to Frank, something to sober them and make them sweat, stay rigid in their shoes and change their clothes. I strained my ears whenever they around, trying to pick up conversation. But when they were loud it was of no importance, and when they were quiet it was too soft for me to hear. They leered at me when they caught me looking, yelling at me to bug off, calling me a creep. But that was only when they caught me looking. Like I said, they left me alone most of the time. 

I got stopped by my English professor, applauded on my essay. My art teacher wanted to see if I was doing any other work, aside from what I was turning in, so I went to an appointment to show him the portfolio I was creating. I hadn't thought of it that way, but I guess that was what I was doing. He asked me about Frank, who was in nearly everything I had drawn. He asked who this was, if they were real or imagined. I said imagined. It wasn't so good to just copy figures from life, as so many people did in drawings of celebrities, and half of the things I drew were imagined anyway. Frank was just the base for a structure. I took his face and used it to fill in the blanks of my thoughts, or rather my thoughts formed around him. It didn't matter either way, really. He was so far gone now, a ghost evaporated into November, that he may as well not be solid at all.

I turned the news on again, sighing and hopelessly scanning the headlines ticking at the bottom of the screen, enduring the local drivel of food drives, weather reports, everything I didn't care about. I only had to look outside to know it was getting colder. It worked to explain why I was home more. I had even come home early today from the deli. I gave up early on Frank. I didn't give up in trying to recreate his memory, but my trying wasn't getting me so far. My drawings were getting off. I didn't have a photograph of Frank, but I could compare my present attempts to my past successes. I was getting details wrong. There were eyelids that were off, ears at the wrong angle, minute details and tricks of shading that were going wrong. I never got Frank wrong like this before. I was drawing someone else on this paper. I didn't have Frank anymore, not in any way.


	16. Chapter 16

 

Frank was back.

 

I could see him through the window, skulking at the counter. His hood was down, and I recognized the back of his head. Not to mention that small,perfect body that was intact. He wasn't hurt. He was alive, and he was back. I nearly meant to tumble through the glass, but I slowed my sneakers, double-checked that my car was locked. Frank, Frank, Frank. I couldn't beat the name out of my head, and I felt myself rush in the building too quickly despite my best efforts, nearly knocking the bell off of the door handle. The girl at the counter stared at me, and Frank stared even harder. He was frowning, sneering, and he started to laugh loudly as he turned around to his friends.

 

"That guy still here? I guess not much changed." I caught. He had noticed how frequently I was around? He had included me in the list of things he was looking forward to after returning from....from wherever he had been? 

 

I demanded a bagel from the counter girl, talking fast and stuttering. I didn't want anything prepared, I needed to sit as soon as I could so that I could hear whatever Frank was speaking of. I nearly ripped the food from her hands once she had finished, shoving a five at her and mumbling something about keeping the change. I didn't have time. I nearly fell into a chair in the corner as I sat, my shaky knees coming close to knocking the table over. I had Frank in the clearest line of sight available to me, at least with the constant shifting and bobbing of his friends. They kept blocking my view. But it wasn't so bad. I could still see him, and it was like all of the dust had been scraped off of my eyes with the return of his presence. The corners of the room seemed more defined, I could see more colors in the actual world as opposed to the confines of my mind and sketchbook, and even the ones inside my head seemed brighter.

 

Frank was brightest of all, but...no, no he wasn't. Half of his face was black. No, closer to a quarter. No, it wasn't so necessarily black. It was purple, dark green, sickly yellow, and bluish in spots. Frank was sporting a black eye. Someone had mauled him, someone had impeded on the fragility of his existence, someone had spoiled him, pouring oil into the milk of his skin. They, whoever they were, had set out to do harm upon Frank. He was battered, and my imaginings from before hadn't thought of this. They had thought of red blood, orange fire, blue lakes and the browns and greens of forests he could've been left to die in, but they hadn't thought of what happens when all the colors mix together. It was fading, healing in the usual matters that bruises do. It meant it was getting uglier. I couldn't imagine how dark it had been when it first hit.

 

"Yeah so, what the hell? Where were you?"

 

"It's been a fuckin' week, man."

 

"Someone shove a dick in your eye, they get rough while you were blowin' em? What's that shit there, faggot?"

 

"Fuck you, man. So okay, Friday, right? Day of the fuckin' Halloween dead, dawn, whatever. I try and cut class, but fuckin...fucking _Ames_ catches me. Yknow, that fatass tenth grade kid."

 

"No, we don't know!" one of them laughs. The tallest, he must be older.

 

"Shut up, man! You're only in eleventh! Anyway, so I took a fucking piss and then I look up at the sink and see him standing behind me in the mirror. And then it's all your usual shit, he fucking gave me _this_...." Frank said, pointing a finger at his mottled eye, "and a bunch of other shit too. Jesus christ, I'm torn up fucking everywhere."

 

"Your asshole, too?"

 

"Seriously, shut the hell up! No, he hit me. With his fists, not his fucking dick. So I like claw at him or whatever, and then I kick him in the balls and he starts fucking yelling, so a fucking hall patrol comes in. And it's that hardass history teacher or whatever, from eleventh grade...."

 

"Fuck him!"

 

"No fuckin kidding! So he looks at me, and looks at the other kid, who of course is on the fuckin' wrestling team so he just slides off, while I get hauled down to the office for "starting a fight". Fuck them! I didn't do fucking shit! And they call my parents and they have to come get me, and they're extra mad because I ruined their fucking plans. They like spend the whole night home with me because they "can't trust me". Fuck you, you could never fucking trust me."

 

"Pfff, your parents are fucking retarded."

 

"Yeah, I know. So I was fucking suspended too, and I had to sit around my fucking house. And of course, of course they're mad because they can't take time off of work, so they call down my fucking grandma to watch me. She's an even bigger fucking bitch than they are. I had to go to fucking church everyday, and she made me actually do all my fucking homework."

 

"Gay!"

 

"Super fucking gay! It was the worst week of my fucking life!"

 

"Hey, well, since you're free now, you wanna ah....go have some fun?" a particularly grimy one asked.

 

"Is it the fun I'm thinkin?" Frank asked, grinning.

 

"My parents stocked up the cabinet again, and Gabe is home from college. He dropped me with a fucking _stash_."

 

"Oh God. Dude, count me the hell in, I haven't had anything. Can we go now? Please?"

 

"Same, shit man."

 

"We shoulda left earlier."

 

"Hey, you got your car keys?"

 

"Yeah, I got 'em."

 

"Let's fuckin' go."

 

"Fuck _yes_ ," Frank yelled, kicking his chair in and shoving his coat on, running out the door. I watched him hop around outside before his friends joined him. And then they were all gone, piled beyond capacity in some rusty teenage death trap.

 

He was safe, at least. He wasn't dead, though wherever he was going now didn't make me feel so easy. He was a poor student, apparently, with parents who didn't seem to care very much. I'd care for him. How anyone could possibly neglect Frank was beyond me. Even among those rapscallions he cavorted with, he was quite popular. They were all older than him, from what I could gather, which said something about Frank. Perhaps the gravity with which he seemed to fall to older persons would work in my favor, if I could ever talk to him. If I had the booze the one boy was boasting of, he'd surely follow me home. Then I could really have a look at him, and he'd be too high to care. He'd be sedated, and if he stayed silent until morning I could even curl up beside him and smell him through the night.

 

I bet he would be warm, too. Constantly bundled up in all those layers of clothing, I bet he was a furnace down below. I'd never seen his skin tinge to blue, it was always a flushed pink that indicated warm blood down below. I just wanted to touch him, to have some sort of surface knowledge to support the lines I was sketching. I wanted to run my dirty gray hands over the perfect contours of his face and compare their smooth surfaces to the scratchy, pudgy planes of my own. I wouldn't befoul him, I wasn't that sick. I wasn't sick at all, I was just overwhelmed. That was the best way to describe this. 

 

Frank was untouchable, though. He'd never speak to me, and the only times he'd ever look at me had been on accident. I sighed, picking up my things before traveling home. On the way, I turned on the radio. I didn't normally leave it on, it took too much time and interfered with my thinking. I was happy to have him home, but I almost needed a distraction. Something didn't make me feel right, something in me was stirring and getting wrong inside of me. His friends had glared at me on the way out, and they kept mentioning my presence. To him, at least. He knew I was there, even he had brought it up today. For as much as I wanted to touch him, to get a closer look, I'd rather be invisible. I didn't want him to notice me, because it would just lead him to realize how much I was noticing him.

 

I didn't feel well, I didn't feel well at all. I was queasy, and turned on the television once I got home to my room. Again, a distraction. I drew Frank, as I always did, and I wasn't sure if it was the residual Halloween spirit or something else, but all of my drawings of him looked...wrong. He was bruised beyond the confines of that black eye, me imagining what the other boy had done to him. I deviated from Frank alone as well, sketching out what the other boy must look like. An ugly brute, bulging out of his uniform. And I drew his friends, too, in their myriad of unwashed, rebellious clothing and accessories. I had to pull out far more colored pencils than usual, with that crew. I kept drawing Frank surrounded by vomit in the same colors. I was imagining what could be happening to him now (alcohol triggering, of course), as well as making a mild commentary on his friends. They were spoiling him. He was always better when they weren't around. He didn't, he wasn't supposed to command the attention of anyone but me.

 

I almost wanted Frank to be invisible too. Then no one could see him but me, when I would also be invisible. No one would foul his appearance, no teenagers would suck him into sharing bad habits. His parents wouldn't be around to irritate him. But there would be me, and I would make him perfect. All of these piles of paintings would accumulate, and I wouldn't even have to pay for the supplies. Another convenience of being invisible, I wouldn't have to do a thing I didn't want to. I would eschew the digits of my Social Security number. I would be a legend and he would be holy, with the qualities of those miracles that only come out inside of dreams. 

 

Invisibility would be ideal.

 

I leaned over and vomited into my trash can, overwhelmed with all the realities that imagined invisibility couldn't prevail over. I whined, whimpered as I crouched over, holding my aching guts. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that they could have Frank and I couldn't. I just wanted him. I just wanted to keep him perfect.


	17. Chapter 17

I arrived at the deli late the next day, not feeling much better than I had the day before. I was wondering if I had contracted some sort of stomach bug, because as soon as I stepped into the shop, I was overwhelmed with another wave of nausea. I pushed, though. I saw Frank alone, and my heart leaped. He was alone, which worked in my favor. I liked him so much better alone, without those other specks of dust to cloud him. He was moving his arms around rapidly, leaning heavily on the counter. I stepped up behind him, taking my honored place at his back in line, and the loud words he was spewing became quite clear.

 

"Fuckin' ten cents! You think I carry around dimes, just let me have it!"

 

"Sir, I can't...."

 

"I'm not a fucking sir, I'm fucking hungry! Gimme my shit, it's just ten fucking cents!"

 

"It's not in my power or in the law..."

 

"So?!"

 

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave--"

 

"Are you fuckin' kidding me!? Fine, fine see if I come back to this shit hole again! Get my food fuckin somewhere else..."

 

The girl behind the counter continued to try to reason as Frank shouted at her. Frank taking his business elsewhere was not a good idea. No, no, not at all. If he did, I wouldn't be able to see him here anymore. If I followed him, he would be aware of me and run even further in the opposite direction of me. I grabbled in my pockets, searching, searching for the crumpled bills that I knew were wadded up somewhere in there. My fingers touched the damp bills and I quickly tugged them apart, peeling a five dollar bill away from the stack and cutting in front of Frank to shove it at the girl.

 

"H-here. Cover the rest of his and uh, uh, I'll have a bagel." I said quickly, realizing that Frank hadn't completely sidestepped my interruption. He had barely moved at all, and my arm was rubbing up against his. 

 

I swallowed hard, focusing on the girl as she rang up the order, overriding Frank's lack of funds and adding my food. I certainly wasn't hungry, I felt even queasier than before. She picked the bagel out of the basket it was kept in and handed it to me along with my change. The paper it was wrapped in crumpled in my shaky fingers, and I spilled half of the coins she gave me back on the floor. I didn't look at Frank as I crouched down, picking up the pennies, the nickels, a quarter that landed at the side of Frank's sneaker. My fingers grazed over its rubber siding as I clumsily picked up the quarter, shoving it into my pocket with the rest. I surfaced again, grabbing the bagel off of the counter and hurrying away to sit down.

 

That was far more impulsive of an action than I normally took. But I had to. I had to preserve Frank's will to return here. I looked up, trying to see if Frank had gone to sit anywhere, but he was just collecting his sandwich at the counter. He shoved some hair out of his eyes, checking the cellphone in his pocket before picking up his bag of food and stomping out the door. He smirked to himself walking out the door, but he didn't look at me. The door slammed behind him and I was left with a recurrence of the churning in my stomach and a stale snack. I guess that was all I was going to see of Frank, but not only had I seen him today, I had smelled him. Touched him. Touched a part of him I had never expected to, and that part was what carried him everywhere. I had just come into contact with every place he had ever been. Sneakers were important. People always underestimated them too much.

 

I wish that he hadn't left so soon. He had looked somewhat happy, or maybe it was just the way his mouth was curving. He wasn't mad anymore, at least. It meant that I, indirectly as it may have been, I had made him happy. I pulled the change out of my pocket. Currency had never been that significant to me. I mean, I understood its use, but other than that I had never cared so much for it. I didn't aspire to be rich or anything, I just took what my parents gave me and left it at that. But now, it had  some sort of bigger use. Especially that one quarter, the one that had fallen beneath Frank's shoe. It was a permanent, tangible object that always would have touched that vital piece of Frank. I would swallow it if I knew it would linger in me, but things were never so stable. Instead I pocketed it again, standing up to leave for home. I kept coming home early lately.

 

It made sense, with the sky darkening earlier, the winds blowing colder, the rains getting icy and bitter. It made sense that Frank wouldn't want to be out in it. Harsh weather didn't suit him, and it didn't really suit me, either. I was so cold. My car's heater was acting up. I hit it in an embarrassing attempt to try and make it push out more hot air, but failed. I kept the radio off today. I didn't need a distraction. Frank had provided me with plenty today. I sighed as I drove home, sighed as I pulled into the driveway, sighed as I tumbled into my bed at home. I hadn't eaten my purchase, I just felt ill. I took off my jacket (I was sweating through it anyway) and balled it up, nestling my face against the sleeve I left exposed--the sleeve Frank had touched. I fell asleep quickly. For whatever reason, I was exhausted. 

 

When I woke up again, sometime in the middle of the night, I vomited again. Retching on an empty stomach, I coughed up bile and heaved until my throat hurt. It splattered all over my floor, and I felt too weak and feverish to get up to clean it. I rolled over again, vowing to clean it up, and slept through the sour smell. At dawn the next morning, I vomited again, with even more pain as I gagged over the side of the bed. I lay there in bed with my arms flopped at my sides, breathing heavily and feeling the fat dry lump of my tongue in my mouth, until my mother came down the stairs to see why I hadn't left for school. I was hazy with illness, but I remember her recoiling from the vomit, then cleaning it up and setting a trash can by my bed, along with a glass of water.

 

Her "call me if you need anything" faded into my dreams, which were really just blurs of color. Sick landscapes rushed through my mind as if I were looking out of a speeding train, and I felt nauseous even in unconsciousness. Frank appeared a few times, but he was always surrounded by the wad of colors that his friends were represented by. I must have tossed and turned, because I woke up with my jacket and blankets thrown to the floor. I pulled them back on me, only to discover the same problem when I woke up an hour or two later. I mindlessly, hastily gulped water in my brief wakeful periods, slamming myself back into sleep as quickly as I could so I wouldn't have to ride out another wave of nausea. I couldn't keep track of all the times I vomited, and my hacking blended in with the television that my mother must've switched on at some point. I vomited through the evening news, the late night infomercials, the day time talk shows and the soap operas, coughing and tossing in my sleep.

 

My fever broke at three P.M. two days later, and I rolled out of bed and upstairs to shower. I was sweaty, my vomit caked at the corners of my mouth, stinking of stale puke and sweat. I took crackers from the kitchen and tumbled downstairs. I had missed Frank for two days, and I was behind on the rest of my work. That wasn't nearly as important as being  caught up on Frank, though. I wonder if he would have noticed my absence. That day, I drew Frank looking. Looking up, down, sideways, and confused throughout all of them. Even if he hadn't noticed I was gone, it would be nice to imagine that maybe he did. I traced my finger over his face on the page, and then drew one more of Frank staring straight forward out of the page. I got the shape, the intensity of his eyes perfectly.

 

"I'm right here..." I mumbled. "You don't have to look so far to find me."


	18. Chapter 18

I didn't make it back to the deli until another day later. I just felt too sick, and my first day back at school was exhausting. I had barely managed to complete all of my make-up work, and suffering through lecture had been unbearable. I no longer needed to vomit, but I was still shaky and tired. I left campus as soon as I had the opportunity, and went home to sleep. I didn't want to go anywhere, I just wanted to sleep. Seeing as I didn't wake up until my alarm went off the next morning, I guess I succeeded at that goal. The classes that day went somewhat faster, and I felt well enough to shuffle my way to the deli that day. It was bitterly cold, and I was glad I had my car and my coat. I ordered some hot chocolate, still not feeling well enough to try coffee, and huddled down in my usual corner. Waiting for Frank was going to drag forever today. 

 

It was a banging on the table that woke me up.

 

"Hey, hey weirdo. You done napping?"

 

I opened my eyes and my hands nearly flew out in front of me, almost knocking over the styrofoam cup I had left full on the table. Frank was in front of me. He had caught me sleeping, and oh god, I wondered if I was still dreaming. He was clear and closer than I had ever seen him before, leaning close and in my face. He was looking at me, he had been looking at me, trying to get my attention for who knows how long. I choked on the spit in my mouth, gasping in surprise and some sort of horror, too. He was gawking at me, _Frank_ was staring at _me_. It was exactly what I had drawn a couple days ago, and if I hadn't accidentally slammed my knee into a leg of the table, I could've sworn I was dreaming.

 

"I--I--"

 

"Jesus, I'm not a fuckin' ghost. Calm down."

 

"S--sorry. You, you, um..."

 

"Woke you up? No shit." he said, grinning. "Hey, so where have you been?"

 

"Where have...wha..."

 

"Yeah, I was short again the other day, short on cash and wondering when my knight in freaky armor would come to cover for me again."

 

"I...uh, I...."

 

"I had to fuckin' _starve_. Don't you feel sorry for me?"

 

I couldn't say anything, I just stared at him, mouth open. I quickly closed it, chewing on my tongue instead. I tasted blood in my mouth and picked at the skin around my fingernails. I wanted to stare at him, to take in all the minor details of his face that had been lost to me before. But I couldn't. I focused down on the ground as my hands shook and my jaw trembled with it.

 

"Well, do you?"

 

Nothing.

 

"God, maybe you fucking are retarded. I don't get it. Why can you only talk sometimes, huh? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

 

Nothing.

 

"So fucking weird...." he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. I could see how small his hands were, how thin his fingers were. He was so delicate, so perfect. "Cmon, you paid for me. Can't you fuckin...talk to me?" he pressed, leaning closer on the table again. I winced away from him, torn between holding my breath and sniffing hard. He smelled like cigarettes and laundry soap, like the clean clothes I never took the time to achieve. I was too busy to do my laundry. I tore in a sharp breath, opening my mouth in a gasp resembling a sob. He sighed in exasperation, shoving himself off of the table and pushing his hands in his pockets.

 

"Whatever. Thanks for the money the other day, I guess." he sighed before stomping off. I watched his hips slide in his pants as he returned to the table where his friends were sitting. They laughed at him as he returned, asking him all sorts of questions. Their voices bounced off of my eardrums. I didn't have so much attention to pay to them. I was so overwhelmed. I tried to drink from my cup, and I spilled half of the now cold drink on my front. I felt like I was going to vomit all over again. Frank had just talked to me. He had sought me out, and caught me sleeping. Of all things, sleeping.

 

I took a deep breath, grabbing napkins and clumsily blotting up the spill. So much had just happened. For one, he had noticed my absence. I had been gone, and while my professors were surprised when I mentioned I was gone, taking the stack of homework I gave each of them with moderate confusion, Frank had actually noticed. He almost seemed as if he had missed me. He had carefully written down the memory of me covering his bill into his mind the other day, and he had made note of my failure to exist for the next three days. I was so used to being invisible, the idea of anyone, much less _Frank_ , taking heed of my absence was incredible. He had seemed moderately upset.

 

There was then the issue of the pet name. He called me, called me a _knight._ Never mind the other adjective he had thrown in there. It was probably just to throw off his friends. I could still hear them laughing, trying to get my attention. I ignored it. A knight, a knight...all of my childhood fantasies that took place with stick swords and imaginary princesses were coming back to me. To be a knight represented something, something huge. It meant that I had... _saved_ Frank, of all things. Maybe I had just saved him the embarrassment of being short on money and the inconvenience of hunger, but I had still done something. And he appreciated it. He had...he had wanted to see me again. And he was almost...concerned by my muteness. Contrary to the jeers of his friends, he wasn't mocking so much as he was...curious.

 

God knows, I was curious, too. I was curious of his motivation, curious of what took him to even recognize that I existed. I could feel my heart spinning on its axis and my stomach turning over and over, bread being kneaded and pounded in my guts. I chewed on my lips, not daring to look up to where Frank was. I had caught so many details of him. The tiny, tiny scar in between his eyes. A round little pockmark. The imperfections of his teeth, the exact pigment of his eyes. They were golden brown, so warm beneath those drooping lids. I wanted to pull out my sketchbook right now, to document everything I had seen. The exact fibers of his hair as it fell over his forehead. That was far too risky, though. I was frozen in my seat, besides the point. I couldn't move, I couldn't do anything but float helplessly in all the thoughts my mind was swamped with.

 

I heard a mass scraping of chairs in the corner and the sound of voices coming closer. Frank and his gaggle of delinquents were leaving. My head jerked up, and I couldn't help it. I wanted to catch one more glimpse of Frank for the day. I stared at all of his friends, each of them leering back at me, each with their own special remark to deliver to me. They called me a million things as they all filed out the door, but I didn't hear them, didn't see the specific contortions of their faces. I just saw Frank, last in line on the way out, and he gave me that smirk. The smirk he had directed at air the days before, and the smirk he threw straight at me now. I froze, again. He kept his eyes heavy and hard on me until he stepped out the doorway, evaporated into the chilly air of November. I fell back into the chair once he was gone, limp and helpless. I was  unable to move, immobilized by that perfect face of his.

 

It was several minutes before I could pick myself up and tumble out the door myself. It was starting to snow and the sky was getting darker. It was freezing cold, and this weather was unusual even for New Jersey. But I wasn't cold. I mean, I was cold, but I didn't feel it. I was burning under my collar, and this heat wouldn't pass anytime soon. It wasn't a recurrence of fever, it was an overwhelming warmth, an uncomfortable surge of scorching blood into my system brought on by Frank and Frank alone. His existence turned the snow into burning bullets, each one slapping me into constant, constant awareness of just how real Frank was. And just how real he realized that I was. My hands shook on the wheel the whole way home, and I almost crashed my car. I wasn't sure if it was ice on the roads or the nerves in me. If only today wasn't Friday. If only I didn't have to waste all of the weekend hours daydreaming of him, daydreaming of a face without the concrete existence it had been proven to contain today. But this weekend was different, with a new fact to console me. That fact that Frank, Frank knew I was real. And perhaps I would cross his mind at some point as well.


	19. Chapter 19

I spent the entire weekend drawing. I was still exhausted from whatever virus I had previously contracted, but that wasn't important. I went outside more that weekend than I had in months. I didn't stop by the deli. Frank wouldn't be there, he was never there on the weekends. I had attempted to find him there before, and he was never present. But I did make about four trips to the art supply store. For one, I burned through my sketchbook. It had been running out of pages to begin with, but I filled the last three pages with sketches of Frank in less than an hour upon returning home. So I went out and purchased another one. It was of better quality, a hardbound book with better quality pages than I was used to purchasing. I had been coasting on leftover sketchbooks from the summer for a while. They were of the Wal-Mart variety, and before I met Frank they hadn't had much in them besides crummy doodles of World of Warcraft characters. I looked through the old sketchbooks before I went to buy my new one, a hodgepodge of evolution. I could see why my professors had marveled so much over my improvement, although the increase in the technical skill I was displaying in these drawings was really a result of Frank. The more I saw him, the more detail and awareness I obtained of his form. And the more detail I had, the more my drawings improved.

I ripped out all of the drawings I had done before I met Frank. They weren't worth my time. I opened the drawer of the unused filing cabinet in my room, tugging hard. It was sticking from lack of use. I stacked the other drawings in there haphazardly, accidentally ripping one when I shoved the drawer shut. I wasn't too concerned. Now I had a greatly improved portfolio, one completely revolving around the construction of Frank. The new sketchbook was already a quarter of the way full, and with more mediums than I had really ever experimented with before. That would be the root of the other three trips to the store. I got the urge for colored pencils, but all the ones I had were stubby and of poor quality. So I bought better ones. I wanted to use chalk pastels after that, to best catch the smudges of red the cold air put in Frank's cheeks. The ones I currently had were all broken, so I purchased perfect (albeit fragile) new ones. I held them carefully, imagining that Frank would have to be held the same way. I had seen those bones up close now. I knew he was fragile.

The fourth trip came after my mother came downstairs to yell at me, picking up the receipts I had left lying around and yelling about bank statements, wasting money, about me being the greatest freeloader the world had ever encountered. She told me I had no concept of money, and that the time for me to sit around gaining no personal income was now over. I was then pushed out the door, being yelled at that "if I liked the art store so much, I could get a fucking job there." She shouted some more things about how the holiday season was approaching, and that I had to be able to get a job somewhere. She also informed me that I wasn't to come home until some place had hired me. I bit my lip, trying not to cry as I started up my car. At least she hadn't ripped up anything I had drawn in some fit of rage, and at least she was letting me keep all of the materials.

The art store didn't hire me. They were a small, family staffed business, and I could tell by the way they looked at me that they wouldn't want me even if I was blood-related. The other art store, the chain one across town, also rejected me. Their entire staff was female, and I guessed that having a male worker might ruin an image, or make the customers uncomfortable. Something like that. It was more of a craft store anyway, focusing on fake flowers and cake decorating classes instead of anything of actual merit. I had overheard conversations between other students in my art class about how they boycotted the store, but I saw one of those students working a register. She glared at me until I left. This job must be a secret she was keeping--not that she had much to worry about with me. I never spoke in class. 

I moved on to the mall, going into every store and stuttering out a request for a job, asking if they were hiring, taking their denial quietly every time. Even the food court wasn't taking anyone, and they were the meanest. It was the dinner hour, and they didn't have time for anyone who wasn't spitting out an order at them. There were 76 advertised stores in the shopping mall, and every single one of them turned me down. They were all manned by girls, for the most part. Even the sports stores. They stared down at me, and I remembered why I always took better to other boys. Girls had malice in their eyes. They looked cold, cruel, their curvy bodies undulating beneath those tight clothes like the coils of a python, or some blonde millipede. There were too many lumps in girl bodies. I didn't like it, but those bulges never failed to suck in my attention. I stared at those horrifying raised mounds of flesh, on both sides, and their eyes flashed even angrier at me. This must be how snakes sucked in their prey. I was reminded of the Jungle Book, the old cartoon with the hypnotizing boa constrictor. They didn't snap any jaws around me, though. They just snapped at me if I had somewhere else to go, if it wasn't time for me to leave if I wasn't going to purchase anything. As soon as they broke the spell with that, I was more than happy to turn tail and run out.

The strip mall didn't yield any better results, and neither did the gas station or any of the fast food restaurants I tried. They were the quickest at getting me out, saying I could try and fill out an online application, but they weren't hiring right now. Even in the Burger King, where they were very clearly understaffed, they just shooed me away. When I had exhausted everything I was aware of, when I crawled back into my driver's seat for the hundredth time that day, I finally started bawling. It wasn't fair. My brother didn't have to get a job because he was in "school". I was in school, too. It wasn't fair that they liked him so much better than me. I was getting good grades now. I was doing good things now. It wasn't my fault that I couldn't be perfect like him. I was just trying to do my best. They couldn't say I wasn't trying. I had been out all day trying to get a job, and no one wanted me. Even my parents didn't want me.

I looked up to realize I was parked, parked in front of the deli. I guess I had driven there on autopilot. As I sat in my car, shivering despite my coat and my heater, a second thought hit my head. If I did happen to get a job, that would be a huge chunk of my time consumed. With that time gone, it would be time I wouldn't be able to see Frank. No Frank. I pulled in a giant, heaping sob and then started gagging, dry heaving. The yanking in my guts from the flu I thought I had gotten over returned, and I just barely managed to grab a plastic bag from the passenger seat and vomit into it. I was doing more crying than actual throwing up, but my throat still stung with the acid. My stomach hurt, mostly because there had barely been anything in it to puke up in the first place. I hadn't been eating. 

I pushed my car door open, shuffling up to the trash can outside the store and dumping the back of vomit inside. I wiped my mouth on my coat sleeve, then figured I may as well go inside. I wanted a drink. I needed something to get the sick taste of bile out of my mouth. The bell chimed as it had so many times before when I had opened it, and I shuffled up to the counter to ask for a Sprite, pushing my debit card across the surface. I had made my parents mad enough already with charging things onto it, so one more purchase couldn't up. I swallowed, trying to calm down my still churning guts, but it didn't do much. My mouth was dry, and I started slurping on the drink as soon as the attendant set it down. It was my favorite worker, and I think it was also the owner of the restaurant. She was heavyset, older, and had a really warm smile whenever I took the time to look up at her. She wasn't smiling now, though, but looking at the plastic I had handed her with a frown.

"Your card is denied, hon."

"My what?" I said, tugging the straw out of my mouth and letting the soda dribble down my chin. "No, no, it can't...I...."

"I've ran it three times...do you maybe have some cash?"

My stomach yanked again, and I dropped my drink as my hands shook out of control. It spilled all over the floor, all over my dirty sneakers and the checkered tile. I had spent all my cash, and now it turned out that my parents had cut off my card. I was unemployed, now in debt on top of all things, I felt like I was going to puke again, and there was no way of fixing this. I couldn't go home if I didn't have a job, and there was no way I was getting a job, which meant there was no way I was going home, and everything was falling apart. I was crying and crying, and I guess that the internal monologue of those thoughts hadn't been so internal after all, because the lady at the register had come from behind the counter and was handing me back my card, rubbing my shoulder and saying a lot of very nice things. One of them, I swear, had been, "do you want to work here?"

"Wh-what?" I said in between sobs, pulling my face out of my hands.

"We have room for another person. It's okay, hon, why don't you come to the office with me?"

I sniffed, following her into a back room with the "employees only" marker on it as I smeared my snotty face all over my sleeves. She had me sit down, smiling at me and still talking in that calm, calm voice as she handed me a form and asked me my t-shirt size. 

"I see you in here all the time, you know."

"Oh...you do?"

"You're our best customer! You're here every day, you never fail."

"It's, um....I...Is that bad?"

"No, we're happy to have you. We're just a tiny little store. Every bit helps." She tugged a shirt, an apron, and a name tag out of a drawer, passing them to me as she took the paperwork away. "And now, you're going to be helping us even more." Her voice was quiet, gentle, and calm. It was nothing like my mother's shrieking. My stomach didn't hurt anymore, and I was feeling a lot better. I even smiled back at her.

"Thank you, um, thank you so much." I said, looking at the shirt sitting on my lap. The store logo was on it, in the same navy that everyone else wore. I was going to be working here now. Working, of all things. And...I would be able to see Frank. Every day. My smile split across my face when I realized this, and I squeezed the shirt tight in my hands. She noticed, and laughed, giving me a pat on my hand. 

"It's not a problem, honey. So..." she trailed off, looking at my paperwork. "Gerard? What days will you be able to work, Gerard?"

"Every day." Every day I would be able to see Frank. "I can come in every single day." I grinned.


	20. Chapter 20

 

When I came home, my family wasn't half as excited as I thought they would've been. My mother congratulated me, but then went on to nag about how it had taken me long enough, and how it was really about time that I start to contribute around here. My brother laughed at me, asking if it was the deli on Monroe and 17th? He then proceeded to rip apart the quality of the restaurant, the decrepit status of the building, and the less than stellar neighborhood it was in. I had never noticed any of those things. It wasn't dirty inside, and the food was good. Just because it was a little rough on the outside didn't mean it was a bad place to be. When I told my father, he hardly said anything. He grunted another "about time" and then returned to watching the television. I went downstairs again, to the hole of a basement I was so fond of. I was glad that I didn't have to leave it anytime soon. 

 

I tried on the shirt and apron, looking at them in the mirror. The new clothes looked strange in comparison with my dirty, worn out jeans, but most of the other employees wore pants in similar states of distress. Maybe the holes could come off as me having "personality," and the stains on the legs could become attributed to spills that had happened on the job. Most of the spills had come from the store, they just hadn't taken place during my time of employment. Employment. It was a strange word to say in my mouth, and a new status that I had never had assigned to myself before. I was nineteen years old and really beginning to grow up. It felt good. I looked at myself again, less on the clothes and more on the face, pushing some of the hair out of my eyes. 

 

I could be a good person. I was doing well in school, I had a job, and maybe one day I would be a really good artist. Maybe if I worked really hard this year, I could test out of community college and apply to go to a really good art school. I could save up money from this new job to help with paying, and I could get another job wherever I moved to and drink coffee at night and wear more black clothing. I would learn how to do laundry and I would eat donuts in the laundromat in, in....in New York. Right, that's the city. That's where everyone who wanted to be something really huge wound up going to one day. 

 

No, no. No, what was I saying? I couldn't leave Jersey. I couldn't leave it for a long time. Frank was here. Without Frank, I didn't have half a chance at becoming an artist. If I disconnected myself from him, I may as well just cut off a hand. Not my left hand, either, my right one. The dominant hand. I couldn't believe I had forgotten Frank, even for that single second. Forgetting Frank was like forgetting my own name, and I'd probably say Frank was even more important. Writing my name down wouldn't get me anywhere, but drawing Frank absolutely would. I took off the work clothes, throwing them onto a relatively clean patch of floor, and put my old ones back on before I picked up and started drawing a whole lot of Frank. It was a sort of apology, for the fact that I would ever think about excluding him from my life. My hands were shaky with guilt and I wound up snapping three of the chalk pastel sticks I had bought. I switched to pencil, snapping leads instead until I passed out around four in the morning.

 

For this reason, school was terrible the next day. I drooled my way through the hours, napping whenever I could until my last one finally ended. Between that class and the time my first shift was scheduled to begin, I had about an hour. I spent most of it sitting in my car biting my nails, parked down the street from the deli lot. I didn't want to look overeager, even though I was. For one, I was apprehensive. I had never worked before. I didn't have a clue what this would entail, or if I would be good enough at it to keep myself from getting fired. The second part, of course, was Frank. Not only would I be seeing him, but I might have to serve him. Those glances I stole from him every day might turn into exchanges of conversation, and that terrified me. I had barely managed to stutter words at him on Friday, and today, this Monday when he was sure to come in, I would be on the other side of the counter from him. If he handed me money at a register, I would touch him. I bit down too hard on a finger I was chewing at that thought, swearing and wiping it on my pants before I checked the time again. It was finally time enough to enter my new place of employment. Of all places, employment.

 

The same woman who had hired me on the spot yesterday was working today, and she gently guided me behind the counter. She showed me the kitchen area, where she said I would spend most of my time. She asked if I knew how to cook, and I told her yes. Most of my job would apparently be fetching food and passing it off, but if need be, I would also prepare it. She showed me the handwashing procedure, the dishwashing procedure, and the proper ways to wrap up food and hand it off. I was introduced to the other people working register, and given a thorough explanation of the clunky machine they were manning. I didn't understand it at all, but I nodded through anyway. When a customer walked through the door, she watched me patiently as I received direction and successfully handed the man a blueberry bagel, wrapped in wax paper and carefully bagged up for him. I was patted on the back and congratulated by her, and she smothered me with praise when I gave five customers after that man their orders.

 

I began to pick up. Not the pace I was working at, I was still slow and somewhat clumsy. I was picking up the rate at which I was glancing between the clock and the door, waiting for Frank to walk in. It was nearing his typical time, he should be coming in here soon. I dropped a freshly prepared sandwich in the floor as more time elapsed without him appearing. The other prep worker yelled at me, my boss shushed him, and I just stared at the mess on the tile. It took me a few seconds to realize that I ought to pick it up, and then I worked very quickly to retrieve the pieces of vegetable and meat from the floor, mopping the mayo/mustard smears as quickly as I could. I didn't want to miss Frank by being on the floor, or something horrible like that. I didn't miss Frank, though. Frank didn't wind up coming in that day. My shift lasted until 8pm and I didn't even see a hint of Frank. Not even any of his stupid friends.

 

On Tuesday, I learned how to properly clean every dish in the store. I stayed late, after closing, and cleaned until my hands pruned and I couldn't smell anything but the reek of detergent.

 

On Wednesday, I learned how to make the basic (and most popular) coffee and tea orders. The liquids burned me several times, and I collected a huge stain on the only pair of khaki pants I owned from spilling a glass of cranberry juice on myself.

 

On Thursday, I learned how to make smoothies and milkshakes. That day, I didn't spill anything and I got a tip from a customer.

 

On Friday, I learned how to use the ovens in the back, and was instructed in the basic way to become a "bread lackey" as they called it. Since it was the end of the week, I got sent home with a lot of leftovers. My family was surprised by how good they were. They didn't expect much from anywhere I worked at. 

 

It was Saturday morning and I had just come home from finishing working my first weekend morning rush. I hadn't seen Frank. Frank had been completely absent all week. I felt like throwing up again. I came home and crawled into bed after work, and the pile of schoolwork that I had neglected all week remained in my backpack, continuing to be ignored. I didn't care. The semester was almost over, I'd be okay. It wasn't important anyway. I wasn't going to get anywhere. Any urge I'd had last weekend to draw, to do anything was gone. I just slept away the rest of the weekend, opening my eyes in between the hours of unconsciousness to stare at the television. I tried not to even think about the sketchbooks packed full of Frank, the portfolio full of larger pieces all devoted to him. I was supposed to be working on a big project right now, but that wasn't happening. I didn't want to think.

 

The whole thing was probably all my fault. That time last week when Frank had spoken to me, I had probably driven him off. I had been sleeping, _sleeping_ , and there was no way that he would want to devote any more attention to someone who just sleeps. That was why I was sleeping so much now. I may as well live up to the demolished persona I made for myself. He came in so often, and had such a demanding presence, but I had just ignored it in favor of stupid, stupid sleeping. It was my fault. He didn't want to be anywhere where he wasn't the biggest deal. Maybe he had even been waiting, waiting to talk to me for some special reason and I had blown it. It was my fault. It was all my fault. Frank was gone and I wasn't going to see him again. It was time to just crawl back down to where I was before I had met him. Before I had snubbed him away. If only I had been able to talk to him more, if only I had been watching him from the moment he came in the door. Then he would've known I cared, and known how much he mattered. He wouldn't have crossed the deli off on his list of places to be. It was all my fault. I should've made him feel more wanted. But there was nothing I could do now.

 

So I just slept, sleeping bitterly in memory of the way I had slept previously. I wished that sleep could cause time travel, and that I could go back and fix things. But it only accelerated time forward, and pushed me farther from the mistakes I had made and further on the calendar from the last time I had seen Frank. At least I didn't have to pay attention about anything. I guess that was worth it.


	21. Chapter 21

 

It was like I smelled him before I could see him, before I could even hear him. I was bent over sweeping up crumbs behind the counter, but then the door rang and I froze. I crouched down harder, bending my knees to the sticky tile. He was here. I couldn't explain it, I just knew he was here. Maybe the explanation for my intuition became more obvious when his voice joined the mix of the other teenagers, shouting and raucous inside the small building. I kept close to the cabinets underneath, hoping I could slide by without being noticed. But as they insistently pounded the bell at the counter, I realized no, I couldn't. It was an understaffed shift, and I had been set on register for the day. I was told I was ready to handle it, and punching the buttons of the machine wasn't the most difficult task in the world. Being in charge of that was okay, and it wasn't bad at all on light days such as this. The girl working on food prep didn't speak much, and that was fine. But today wasn't a normal day.

 

"Gerard!" she hollered. "Customers!" 

 

She didn't speak much normally. I guess today was an exception.

 

I took a deep breath, pushing myself up and scrabbling at the cheap surfacing of the counter. I pushed my hair out of my eyes, and stuttered out the usual greeting, the usual plea for an order. My stomach was flipping and my palms were sweating. Right in front of me, up close and in high definition, was Frank. His friends leered behind him as he leaned on the counter, his body almost sliding across it and falling into the "employees only" zone. His face lit up when he saw I was working, and his normally small (perfect) mouth stretched wide and red across his face.

 

"Hey, it's you! So you got promoted from 'creepy guy in the chair' to 'creepy guy behind the counter', huh?"

 

"Um, um...what do you want to eat?"

 

"No hi, hello? Shit, I've been gone for like a week, didn't you notice?"

 

"I um, could I just take your order, please?"

 

He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, creepy. Okay." He paused, whipping his head back to his friends, who laughed at him. He laughed, too, and returned with an even wider grin. "I'll take...a large veggie sub, with fuckin' everything on it. Extra cheese. Extra sauce. Okay, and I also want...a muffin, and two donuts, and...shit Greg, what did you? Okay, and four chocolate milkshakes--large! Aaaaand, a banana shake. With extra banana." he said, leaning even closer to me over the counter. I recoiled, trying not to restrain my sniffing. He was so close, that laundry-cigarettes-skunk smell. It should be bad, but god was he perfect.

 

"Um, is...is that all?"

 

"Sure is."

 

"That'll be, um, that's twenty one dollars and seventy five cents."

 

"Cool. You wanna cover that for me....Gerard?" he said, turning around and laughing at his friends. They cackled along, his loyal pack of hyenas. "I'll be waiting in the back, and make sure to send that cute girl in the back to serve us. Unless you wanna try out her pigtails and like, do it yourself. Be real fuckin cute and cover that tab though, mmkay? Thanks!" he said, running off to sit down, his friends all gabbing at him in a slew of chatter.

 

He hadn't paid. He was $21.75 in the hole, I was that much short at my register. What was I supposed to do? He wasn't going to pay. He, he expected me to pay. That one time I had covered his short bill...oh no. Now he expected it. I couldn't leave this empty, though. And I wasn't about to drive him away from the business. I needed him here, I needed him staring me down with those...those beautifully demanding eyes of his. The burn in them, the way the green spots burned harder. They weren't brown like I had thought. They were hazel. I'd have to edit that, or at least incorporate that into the new drawings of him I went after. But first, there was this problem at hand. I looked around, hesitating before pulling out my wallet. This wasn't right, but I don't think it would get me fired. His bill still apparent in the green numbers of the register, I opened up the drawer and slid a twenty and two ones into the register, pulling out a quarter. The register drawer shut, clicked back to zero. It was awaiting the next customer, and I was ripping off a receipt and waiting for Frank's next move.

 

That move was leering at the food girl, laughing as one of his friends tugged at her apron, said some things I didn't understand. She spread the food out on their table as quickly as she could, then stomped back over to me. She snarled something about "blasted kids", and I nodded in semi-agreement. I hated Frank's friends. Mostly, because right now, their shoulders were blocking out Frank's face. I leaned on the counter myself, rubbing my bare arms in the empty spot where Frank's jacket-clad arms had been. I wasn't sure if I was imagining it, but I could swear that the spot was still warm. I shook my bangs in front of my eyes, trying to look like I was keeping my stare stuck on the door, but Frank and his friends had conveniently picked a large table very close to the door. I tilted my head a little to the right, trying to see him a little better. He was chomping on the sandwich--I guess that had been for him--while his other friends enjoyed the rest of the food. As Frank sucked on one of the milkshakes, his mouth came back up covered in whipped cream and chocolate. 

 

Then, one of the girls leaned over and licked the mess off of his face. He squealed, batting her and her pink hair away as he laughed, loud and clear inside of this otherwise deserted shop. I coughed and sputtered on the spit I had been swallowing, and none of them turned around to notice. They were being too loud. Frank grabbed the girl and licked the side of her face, shoving her off of him. He yelled something about her tasting like too much makeup, and she yelled back that he tasted like too much faggot. The other girl came up beside me and stared along with me.

 

"I wish they weren't the only ones who came in here regularly. Stupid little punks."

 

"Um, they're um, loud."

 

"Ha, no shit. You wanna take a break? I can cover for a while. You look kind of tired. Go sit in the break room for a while, okay?"

 

I quickly took her invitation to leave. Seeing Frank wasn't quite worth this. I hated his friends. I hated them so much. It wasn't fair that they got to touch him, to taste him of all the obscene things in the world, and I was stuck staring from so far away. The sense of smell and taste were connected, I remembered, but that didn't make it any better. I could sniff him, I could barely catch the hints of him inside my nose, but these stupid kids were defiling him with their tongues, covering that perfect face in all of their foul, nicotine-laced spit. Frank always stank like that, and I bet they were the ones who had pushed that on him. They were fouling his perfect lungs, turning all that pink tissue inside of him to something ugly, something black. I stared at the television in the break room, hands shaking as I crossed my arms and clung to them. I held myself close, pretending it was Frank. It was Frank, in a sense. The specks of him that had been left on the counter transferred to me. It was the best I could get, with the rest of them left for those awful, awful peers of his. 

 

I wish that business wasn't so valuable, or else I'd slam the door shut to anyone who wasn't him. Then I could empty my wallet only for him, his other wishes excluded. I'd fill his face with food any day, but today had infuriated me. It was my bills that kept those scoundrel friends inside of here, that was feeding their filthy faces. Those faces that were so full of stupid piercings. If they ever coaxed Frank into puncturing himself, I would be so mad. He wasn't meant to be defiled. Those others, they were ugly and demanding more ugliness to be inserted into them. Frank didn't need any of that. He was immaculate, a different plane. I guess Christ had walked with the devil for forty days. I just wished that Frank's time with these demons would soon expire. He'd be so much better without them. An isolated subject instead of a clean paintbrush in foggy water.

 

I sighed, looking at the clock. Time to return to the front. My coworker wasn't there, but I saw her at the table where Frank and his friends had been. They were gone now. She was working at the floor with a rag, and saw me and waved. 

 

"They left, thank god!" she said, continuing to scrub at what looked like a large spill of chocolate milkshake. Good. I had a small vendetta against chocolate milkshakes after today.

 

"Oh um, okay. Do you um, want some help?"

 

"Nah, it's okay."

 

We didn't speak after that, and only three customers came in for the rest of my shift. I didn't experience any decrease in anger when I left to go home, and I was finally able to attack those projects I had been neglecting. I even inserted a theme into it, a "mythological" experiment with a large amount of malicious tentacles, typical harpies batting angry wings among brown seas. Polluted waters. Frank was the victim of course, ripped up and covered in burns as tongues attacked his face, as he was surrounded by bare breasts, as his skinny legs scrabbled to stay up. It took a couple days to complete, and I was glad I had had a day off from work. I almost hadn't even wanted to go in. I was too angry to appreciate Frank, to the extent that if he was going to be engulfed by that girl, those other girls and boys, I didn't want to see him. It made me feel far too sick to my stomach.

 

Once all the oils on the canvas had dried enough for transport, I drove over to campus and dumped it on the desk of my professor in the middle of studio hours. It was hot in the art building, and the other students stared at me. They had forgotten I was enrolled here, largely due to my excessive absences. My professor was shocked, his face contorting and frowning at what I had presented. 

 

"Gerard, this is late, but...wow. I don't mind that it's late. This is very, very good...you realize that, right?"

 

"I guess." I mumbled. Now that it was complete, I didn't want to look at it. 

 

"I think it deserves a very important place in the upcoming show. I want to put up some other things from your portfolio as well, you've simply done an astounding amount of improvement lately. Now, Gerard..." he said, leaning closer to me over the desk. "Have you begun to apply at any other schools? I really think that you're beginning to surpass what this school can offer you."

 

"No." I said flatly.

 

"Is it financial? Because I can help you with scholarships, you're simply too talented...."

 

"No. I'm fine. I like it here."

 

As long as Frank was here, I was staying here. No matter what harpies, what venomous children launched themselves at him, I'd stay. I could deal with it every day for the sake of seeing his face. Tomorrow I had work again, and I would grit my teeth and stay through the time they were there. No break room for me. My teacher didn't notice, but there was a small flaw in my painting. I had left out the green in Frank's eyes. That wasn't going to happen again. I was going to cling close and remember all of his details. I would not leave him alone until I could render him perfectly, until he was imprinted on every corner of my mind. I could be content to stare. After all, I drew with my hands, my eyes, not my tongue. Taste was irrelevant, Frank was better on display than in contact. He was perfection, and I was not allowed to touch. I understood that now. 

 

"I can't exactly leave my inspiration." I said with a small smile, looking up at my professor. He was puzzled, he frowned, but he left it at that. I turned around and left the building, the other students staring at me. They could do whatever they wanted. Frank's friends could do whatever they wanted. As long as Frank stayed in existence.

 

I couldn't wait for work tomorrow.


	22. Chapter 22

Frank didn't come to my workplace that day, but he was in the day after. I wasn't on register duty that day, rather tied to the food prep line. He stared at me, tilted his eyes down to my mayonnaise covered hands, licking his lips. Pulling out a punk-styled wallet on what looked to be a new chain, he handed out a bill to the girl at the register, asking for a veggie sub, with extra mayo. He stressed the last part, continuing to stare me down. She relayed the order to me, but I just nodded, indicating that I had already heard it. Frank wasn't wearing his school uniform, and he was in earlier than he normally was. He was also alone. In replacement of his uniform, he had tight jeans, even dirtier sneakers than usual. Gloves. His jacket that I had seen so many times before. He wasn't dressed well for the weather, not at all. The temperatures hadn't even made it to 40 degrees today. There was a different demeanor about him. He looked cockier, looked more arrogant. Maybe it was a consequence of his friends being gone. I knew he'd be better without them. I had been right.

 

I bent down closer to the counter, though I could feel his stare stuck on my back. My fingers shook, like they always did when I was around him, and my hand slipped on the knife I was sawing at the avocado with. I swore, and my coworker swore louder when she saw the accident. She apologized to Frank, threw me a rag and told me to go mop up in the bathroom. She was angry. She had been working here a longer time, and cuts, blood, all injuries had only one consequence to her. That consequence was brutal cleanup of the prep area and a delay in everything for the rest of the day. I apologized, almost tripping on the floor as I exited to the employee bathroom. She swore after me, apologizing more to Frank once she thought I was out of earshot. She wasn't forgiving like my other coworkers and my boss tended to be. She hated anything out of the monotony, because it was always guaranteed to be an inconvenience. 

 

I ran water over the cut. It wasn't that deep, there was just a lot of blood. I had to agree with my coworker on the nature of this being an inconvenience. It was typical that the one day Frank was alone, I had to be alone, too. In the bathroom with no one to accompany me but my soggy self. It was irritating, I was irritated. I cleaned the cut up as quickly as I could, running back out to the front to hastily punch in at the register while my coworker finished Frank's order and cleaned up my mess. That mess being blood, and the cleaning material being bleach. You had to be extra careful with things like that around here. I was far from diseased, but there were plenty of people who were very, very much diseased.

 

"Wow, you're really shitty at this." Frank said, smirking at me. I didn't say anything, but the band-aid on my finger felt neon green, not flesh colored. It was like a shining beacon of my biggest failure, biggest screw up yet. Frank had came in, seeking a service. And I hadn't been able to provide it for him. "You think you're gonna get fired?" he prodded, leaning all over the counter again. I could see his buttocks squirming behind him.

 

"What?" I said, plucking the change out from the drawer.

 

"Yeah, fired. For being like, such a fuck up. I dunno, it's weird seeing you behind here. Like, it's always fucking weird seeing you, but I guess you're better suited to the corners. Creepy dudes like you belong in the dark."

 

"Sorry about your inconvenience..." I mumbled, tearing off the receipt and giving the change to Frank. His hand was open, outstretched and waiting for me. I just realized the new problem I was about to face. It hadn't happened yesterday, when Frank had left without paying. When I had...covered. But now I had to give him this money back. I had to touch his hand. It looked warm, it was small, and I could see the small fluctuations of color inside of it. Where flesh turned pinker, turned redder. The tips of his fingers were bright, bright red, and I could see bitten nails, too. The change was getting hot in my own hand, and my sweat was dampening the bills, making the coins slick.

 

"Uh, hello? Back down to Earth, freak show, hi, hello, what's up." he said, tapping on the counter with his other hand. 

 

"Oh, oh um, sorry..." I reached out, trying to give him the money without actually touching his hand. I wasn't worthy to touch his bare skin like that. Especially not his hands. Those hands that went everywhere he had, that touched everything he had touched. My attempt failed, though. He raised his hand up higher, and bumped into mine as he hastily grabbled at my own skin, pawing the receipt, the bills, the coins out of my hands. I felt his fingers slide in my sweaty palms, and my mouth was hanging open at the sensation. He was so warm. My hand went limp and shook as I had the sense to draw it back, to not hang on for too long after the transaction was finished. He squinted at me.

 

"Fuckin' weirdo."

 

He snatched his bag of food up from the pickup area and stomped out, walking out into the windy day and crawling into a black car that was parked in front of the store. The driver looked older. It must be his father, or maybe an uncle. The casual dress would explain that, as well as the fact that Frank wasn't in school. He was probably just on the way home from a dentist appointment or something, and getting a late lunch in the meantime. It didn't seem right to imagine Frank with parents, in a house, taking mashed potatoes at dinner. He was something that had been created, not...born. Birth was messy and imperfect, with the tinge of original sin attached and all of the other things I had only half absorbed in Sunday school. Frank wasn't imperfect, he was a small god packed into smaller pants.

 

I shouldn't be noticing things like that.

 

I didn't stop noticing that, even post-happening, after I had driven home after my shift. I chalked it up to the pants giving a new anatomical perspective, clinging to the shape of his legs better than uniform pants or his baggier jeans had been able to do. The rips in his jeans didn't have much to do with shape though. But they exposed color, establishing that the skin of his thighs was even paler than the rest of him. He was delicate and preserved, thankfully. He wouldn't look good if he was left to set out in the sun. I picked at the skin around on my nails, peeling off the band-aid from earlier and reopening the wound. I worried the scab away in the middle of my worrying about Frank, and it took me a little while to notice it was bleeding again. My hands were sticky with blood before I had the sense to get up, wash off, and tape it up again.

 

In a way, I liked that it was bleeding. Having an open wound was good, upon further thought, because it was allowing Frank to creep past the first layer of skin and actually wedge himself inside of me. His residual contact, at least. Because today he had _touched_ me. His hands were soft, they were girly and hadn't experienced the battering of the recent weather. Mine were cold now, but god they had burned when he touched me. He had touched me. It had been skin on skin, without any sort of barrier, without any fabric getting in the way. I wasn't scraping memories off of countertops, I was clutching them in the center of my sweaty palm. Not only palm, but fingers, thumb, everything. And I had touched the same on him. He was so warm. I couldn't get over how warm he had been.

 

I touched my face. I was hot, really warm and flushed. It was similar to the fever I had recently gotten over, but I wasn't ill. It was a different brand of heat. I took off my sweatshirt and turned out the light in my room, leaning against the cool wall of the basement, the one that was underneath the window. It was cold against my back, but I was still hot. Frank probably hadn't felt like this today, not with how he was dressed. He wasn't suited for the weather,not with those pants. The pants that were full of holes, ripping away to show all the smooth skin of his thighs, the knobby bumps of his knees. When he walked out, there had been one particularly large rip near his backside, with a sliver of red boxer shorts peeking out. Or maybe briefs. They seemed to cling tight to him, from what I could see.

 

One of my hands, the bandaged one, was shoved down my own boxer shorts. They were a dingy gray, which I suppose suited me. I was pushing them down on my hips, grabbing at myself. It hurt. Being hard hurt, and it became simultaneously more manageable and harder to deal with when I made my first grab. I whimpered a little bit, my stomach flipping over as my mind kept shuffling the images of Frank in my head, those thighs, the way his hips moved in those jeans, the way he chewed on that red mouth of his. The red mouth that matched his underwear, and I wondered what they'd look like all by themselves. I looked down, and the bandage on my finger looked darker. I must have reopened the cut. I couldn't pick out red in the dark, but it didn't matter. I pushed my pants, my boxers all the way down with my other hand as the one on me moved faster, and when I shut my eyes, squeezed them up in the direction of the ceiling, it was those green-flecked eyes of Frank's that I saw before I spilled all over my hand.

 

I immediately got a paper towel and mopped myself up. When I turned the light back on, I saw that my cut had indeed reopened, and I had rubbed the band-aid off. There was blood mixed with the other material on the paper towel, and I guiltily scrubbed my hands off in the bathroom. I shouldn't have done that. Frank was too good for me to think of like that. But when I set myself down to get some drawing done, I could barely sketch out ten pictures of what he had looked like today before my hand was down my pants again, and my face was skidding against the top of my desk as I bucked out into my palm again. And again, two hours later. My stomach hurt and my eyes were crusty, and one of the drawings had fallen to the floor and been ruined by my mess. I picked it up, examining it, and the drawing of Frank was standing in a stain of it. I shuddered, crumpling it up and throwing it into the garbage can. 

 

I needed to reexamine exactly what Frank was starting to become.


	23. Chapter 23

Sitting in my car in traffic, sitting in my classes, standing at the counter at work, all I could think about was Frank, and specifically what had conspired with Frank regarding last night. I had flipped through my sketchbooks, trying to squint hard enough at my drawings to understand them from some alternate point of view. All I saw was his perfection, occasionally mottled by my own mistakes in rendering. He wasn't always dressed, but that was part of art. Human bodies weren't naturally constrained by clothing. It would be like drawing a dandelion wearing a sweater. Frank was as much a product of nature as anything else. 

As I looked through, the drawings became chronologically more "risque," I supposed. Meaning, there were fewer instances where Frank was dressed. There were still plenty where he was. Really, it had just changed from an 80/20 ratio of clothed vs. dressed to a 50/50 ratio. But that was just a result of me seeing him more, and studying more anatomy textbooks, and figuring out how everything must stack up under his clothes. It helped when he wore tighter outfits. But that didn't reflect anything on me. It was just a simple aesthetic, one that made the hidden shapes more obvious, and helped create a better picture.

It was a real struggle, trying to remember just what he looked like all the time. It would be far more convenient if I could somehow get a picture of him. Too bad that was absolutely impossible. That was a form of observation I couldn't hide, and one that would destroy everything I had worked up to achieve. A photo could only render so much, anyway. The ideal situation would be one where I could just have Frank with me all the time. If he could just laze around in my room, folding his small frame into every shape I needed to see from him. Standing, sitting, lying down, crouching....there were so many ways I wanted to see him. I could never capture him perfectly until I saw him in every state the human body was capable of being in. Imagination only went so far.

Having Frank on hand wouldn't only be good for posing. I mean, any cleverly crafted mannequin could pull that off. It would be really wonderful to incorporate him into the art itself. I could throw paint on him, I could put some feathers on him, I could do anything I pleased and then photograph him. He'd be a living sculpture with a warm heart and shining eyes. I could sleep next to him and sniff him, absorb him into my dreams and wake up the next morning with even greater ideas than before. I would be able to hold him, and feel out the lines and curves I was only clumsily observing now. If I was able to feel them out, that would make my pictures perfect.

My stomach tossed and turned as I thought of how badly I wanted to feel him. To see how soft all of his skin was, not simply his hands. I wanted to see where the hairs on him started and ended, to see which parts of him gave off the most heat. I wanted to know not just what he smelled like, what he felt like, but what he saw and how he heard. I wanted to crouch behind him and hold him close, to rest my head on his shoulder and have him whisper his perspective on everything to me. I wanted to find out what he tasted like, and see how warm his mouth was, to discover what all of those orders he placed tasted like after they dissolved into his taste buds and were swallowed away.

I felt myself shiver, felt something tighten at that thought. I inhaled sharply and sputtered to my boss that I had to go to the bathroom, that it was an emergency, and I got to the employees-only single stall and sat down as hard as I could on the seat. There it went again. The same thing as the night before. I bit hard on my bottom lip, bit my tongue, picked at the skin around my nails, chewed my fingers, kicked at my ankles. It needed to go away. I thought of bad things, I thought of everything I hated, I thought of traffic jams and burnt popcorn. It took several minutes, but it worked. I hoped I wouldn't get in trouble for my time of absence.

When I got back out to the main area, I was handed a mop and bucket. Things were slow right now, I was told, and the floors needed cleaning. "Especially with those hooligans around," my boss whispered. I looked up, and almost choked on the "okay" I was trying to give her. Frank and his friends had arrived in my absence, and they were all ripping into their food. I started cleaning on the other side of the dining area, trying to stay as far away from them as possible. Frank was dressed differently again today. He blended in with them, fitting seamlessly into a sea of black. Fortunately, he didn't share the gruesome piercings of his peers. I detested looking at them. They noticed me, I could tell. It was obvious by the way that one of them hooted and then slammed his hand into a drink sitting on the table, knocking it all over the floor.

"Brian! Asshole!"

"Haha, you thirsty, motherfucker? Drink it up, it's right there!"

That one responded by picking up the sandwich in front of the other boy and flinging it across the floor. He shouted expletives at the other, shaking his shoulders as the one boy laughed. I looked around desperately for my boss, but the back counter was moderately deserted. We were short staffed, and today was slow anyway. They were probably taking care of background work. I was all alone. I ducked down, wishing I could dive into the bucket of dirty water. I could feel them all staring at me, but I didn't want to look up. I bet Frank was looking, too. I had seen him sitting in the center of the group, smiling. It was wide and calm, and his eyes were lidded low. I drove the mop hard into the tile, wishing I could scrape a hole for me to crawl into.

"Hey, Matty, you wanna have mop boy over there fix you a new sandwich? Maybe call him, maybe he'll throw something a little extra in there!"

"Fuckin gross man! Fuck off!"

"What's wrong, you don't want bacon grease on rye? Ha!"

"Fuckin' weirdo."

"You or him?"

"You, asshole!"

"He's not doin' his job." I heard Frank say. His voice was slower than usual, somewhat slurred and lazy. "Not cleanin' the shit on the floor."

"Yeah, you're right, Frankie. Hey, hey freak show!"

I ducked my head, trying to ignore their calls, but they insisted.

"Come clean up this shit!"

"Gonna dry all sticky, but I bet you know all about that, huh?"

"Dryin' on your haaaaaands!"

"Dude, that's gross!"

"So's the shit on the floor. Creepy, get the fuck over here! Clean this up!"

I wanted to leave, and I wondered if my boss would be able to kick them out. But she had told me they'd done worse things in here before, and that she'd rather have them in here than on the streets. She had a big heart. She wanted to fix everything, and nurture everyone. Aside from that, though, she didn't want to deny business. It was slow, it was desperate, and those kids were the most loyal customers. Probably because they knew they could get up to whatever they wanted inside these walls. I also didn't want to make it look like I was incapable of handling the responsibilities of this job. I needed to keep it, no matter what. It was one of the most important things I had going for me right now.

I took in a deep breath, and started slowly mopping closer to them. I was in the middle of the restaurant as they continued to shout at me, growing louder as I crept towards their far corner table. They were piling up a bigger mess on the floor, and I saw one of them spit on it. I ran behind the counter to go get a broom and dustpan (I was going to need it) and they yelled directly at me as I briefly went away from mopping.

"Where you goin'?!"

"Come back, baby!"

"Hey retard, you forgot somethin'!"

When I came back and entered their territory, I was completely engulfed in their taunting. They were all talking at me, all of them at the same time. There were so many of them, and their faces were uglier up close. Except for Frank's. He leaned over as I crouched on the ground, picking the scraps of discarded food off of the floor. He was looking at me. He didn't say a thing. Normally I could pick out his smell, but the usual scent of laundry was absent. The whole crew of them smelled like a big, ugly skunk. Cigarettes and skunk. It was strange, and especially unpleasant. I felt something cold dumped on my head, and I screamed, jumping back and scooting on the floor. My hair, my shirt were dripping wet, and they were all laughing hysterically. I blinked up through my dripping bangs, and I saw all of them twisted up in laughter except for Frank. He just stared, but his eyes didn't even seem to be looking at me. They went past me.

When Frank, too, started to smile and laugh, I lost it. The floor was mostly mopped by now, and the only puddle that was left was coming from me, as the soda drip dried off of me. I was starting to shake, and a few tears leaked out as I cleaned the rest of the floor, slamming the mop in the bucket when I finished and going back behind the counter as quickly as I could. Looking at the clock, I noticed that I had gone over my scheduled shift time. With that excuse in hand, I told my boss I was heading home, and clocked out before she could see the state I was in. When I went back through the main area on my way out, they didn't even notice me. Their attention had changed to some other subject, but I still eyed them warily as I walked out.

Frank caught my eye.

We made eye contact.

I ducked away quickly, but I swore I saw him smile as I pushed the door open and left for home in the cold.


	24. Chapter 24

Frank came in the next day, and of all blessed things available, he was the only one who came in the next day. He was again out of his uniform, and I wondered when the last time I had actually seen him in it had been. He was wearing the same tight jeans from before--those jeans, the ones that I had been memorizing in my sketchbook so well recently. Last night I hadn't bothered though. Last night, I hadn't felt so well. There had been a curious sinking stuck in my guts, a chill worse than usual in my so commonly cold basement bedroom. It made me not want to touch my drawing materials, or myself for that matter. I had just stared at the television until I was able to roll over and sleep. 

It was something to do with yesterday. Actually, it was everything to do with yesterday. Having things poured on me, having insults thrown at me to that degree--it hadn't happened to me since middle school. Even then, it hadn't been that bad. I had enjoyed invisibility for most of my public school career. To Frank's friends, though, I was neon and flashing. No matter how hard I tried to slip out of their notice, they always caught me. Wherever I went and whatever they did, they caught it. They belittled me for it, no matter how small. The worst part of all of this was that despite their close attention to my mistakes, Frank only ever noticed in passing. It was true that he held the reserve of a subject, but at the same time, I still flushed at the thought of his attention on me.

That attention had taken place yesterday, in that brief snap of his lazy stare. That attention was coming again today, as Frank spilled across the counter in a less lazy way. He seemed jittery, anxious. There was makeup on his face, and I didn't understand why. I guess it was the style, I had seen it on his friends, but he really didn't need it. It accentuated him, certainly, made him look even better than before, but the black smudges around his eyes also seemed to distract from his original appeal. He was wearing a new jacket, I noticed. It was leather, fashionable, and thrown over a different hoodie than he normally wore. This one was red and black striped, and looked warm. I was at least glad that he was keeping himself safe from the cold. 

I shuffled over to where he was waiting at the counter, and stared at him. I could see the quality of his new clothes better up close, as well as the small imperfections in the way he had made up his face. Looking past him, I also noticed that same car I had seen previously--the nice black one. I couldn't see well enough to identify the driver, but I assumed it was the same from before. The car was parked but still on, huffing out smoke into the cold air. It was waiting on Frank. Frank was waiting on me.

"Jesus shit, hello?"

I snapped back into attention, quickly asking him the usual way I could take his order. I clumsily wiped my hands on the front of my apron. They were sweaty. He was beautiful, rolling his eyes and showing off his whites to me.

"Get me the usual shit. You know that, right?"

I knew exactly what he wanted. A large vegetarian sub sandwich, extra mayo, no onions, an extra pickle on the side, and a strawberry milkshake. I was surprised he expected me to know, and I could only nod and punch it into the register as acknowledgment of that.

"You're so fuckin' weird. Do you even do anything? Or do you just, fuckin...stand around here looking at people? And looking weird? It really fuckin'....really pisses me off." he spat, picking up one of the fake flowers (disguising pens) and picking at the petals. "You're too fuckin' old for that shit, aren't you? Or...fuck, are you still in high school?"

He had paused, and was looking up at me expectantly. I had moved over to the preparation area (we were short staffed, again) and was working on his order. I gawked back at him, at first not understanding that he was interested in more information about me. He gestured with his hands, widening his eyes and indicating that he expected an answer from me.

"I...um. I go to....go to community school. I, I mean college. I'm um. I'm...over there." I said, talking too fast as I dropped tomatoes on the floor. Shit. Frank sighed, returning to his picking.

"I guess you're not that fuckin' weird. I mean, you're really fuckin' weird. But you're not an asshole or anything. At least you've got that." He sighed, looking down at his front. I continued to prepare his food, and he didn't say anything else. My heart was pounding in my chest, but I was able to keep my hands steady as I finished the order. 

As I was putting everything in a bag, eyes still on the ground, I heard Frank shout out an expletive in harmony with an older, male voice. I looked up, and the older man I had squinted out before was standing next to Frank now, shouting about how long he was taking, how difficult he was, how much time he was wasting. The man was tugging on Frank's arm, and I felt a sharp rush of anger go through me. It had been a very long time since I had actually gotten mad. But no one, no one should be able to manhandle Frank that way. I built up a strength in my lungs, slamming the completed order on the counter and saying, almost shouting over them, "order's up!" 

They both stopped their argument and looked at me, Frank with an expression of teenage dissent and the man with a cold, twisted grimace of annoyance. "I hope this was worth the wait." he snapped at Frank, digging out his wallet and shoving a twenty onto the counter before grabbing Frank by the collar and hauling him out. Frank didn't protest, he just walked out obediently. He didn't turn back to me, didn't look around any last time before the bell chimed and they left, climbing into the car and speeding off. I was glad that the roads hadn't iced over. The way that man was driving, it wasn't safe for Frank. He had left without waiting for change, so I put the twenty into the register and deposited the leftover change into the tip jar. It had a good day for tips, I would explain. They probably wouldn't even question it.

I, however, was full of questions. Questions as to who that man was, for one. It must be some sort of father, or uncle. Stepfather, perhaps. He didn't resemble Frank at all. He had been an ugly man, somewhere in his late thirties or early forties, condensed into a business suit with cold, gray eyes. They weren't warm and varying in color as Frank's did. They were flat and bitter. The other great question was why he could get away with manhandling Frank like that. He had no right to grab Frank like that, to shove him around. Frank was a specimen that ought to be packaged in styrofoam, carried around in a basket of cushions and feathers. Not yanked around in a way that was sure to leave bruises on that pristine white skin. He might look good with bruises, it could suit him, but only in the fiction that art provided. Not in real life. The idea of him marred in reality made me sick.

I would take Frank's friends over this man any day. They never came in at the same time, but at least his friends sought me as their target, not Frank. They were horrible rats, certainly, but at least they treated Frank like the king, the little prince that he was. He was the center of their attention as he was the center of mine, whereas the other man didn't seem to want Frank nearby at all. He commented on Frank's consumption of time as an inconvenience. The gall, the audacity to say that. I treasured every single second I was in the presence of Frank, and for that man to be bored with the time he had with Frank and to snatch Frank away from me, it made me so angry. I hated him. I had only seen him once, and I hated him more than I had ever disliked those friends of Frank's. They were parasites, they were pests. But this man was a monster. You could see it in his eyes, in the way he touched Frank. Monsters took precious things and shoved them around like garbage, and the way that man had dug his fingers into Frank reminded me of the way my brother's fingers had skidded on the trash bag this morning.

Frank wasn't trash. Frank was precious.

I tried to make up for what I had seen earlier by devoting a large amount of art time to Frank when I arrived home, but I couldn't shake what I had seen earlier from my head. I had a very large project due soon, as the end of the semester was approaching fast, and it was turning out very, very gory. It was Frank, of course, but he was battered, bruised, bloody, and all of the usual terrible things. He was sitting in some sort of deserted building--the deli, I supposed--spread out and looking close to death. I figured I could make up some interpretation of it relating to martyrdom, using the casual excuse of religion for violence. My broken saint, Catholic school reject. It hadn't looked as if he had gone to school recently. Maybe God had rejected him after all.

I added in that man I had seen, in multiple, in duplicate. His cold eyes peered from the shadows in a million different pockets of darkness, joined by different shades of wider, wilder eyes. Frank's friends, the other devils he was plagued by. He was a shattered saint, that would be it, and it could certainly work. My teacher loved Christian metaphors. He constantly went on about them on the occasions I actually bothered with class. I had more important things to do. I had to take in more observations of Frank, and when I saw him every day the next week, with him joining in with his friends in all the worst ways, shouting out crueler things at me, snapping at me whenever I attempted to be friendly, driving in the fact that I was pathetic, a huge loser, and finally taking to throwing food at me along with his friends, well, all of those things certainly piled up to support my "concept" of demonic possession.

It would be nice if he could be saved, if I could save him in some sort of way, but I was just a bystander. He was getting meaner, sliding into a sink of ruin. He started wearing his regular clothes again, and coming in after school hours were over, but on those days he was even worse. He started to snap at his friends, and one day he picked up and walked out on them. I watched him stand outside on the sidewalk, waiting in the cold while his friends complained loudly about him inside. I saw that same car pick him up, and I saw Frank change his posture, snap into a lazier drag accompanied by a greater sort of confidence. It wasn't the slouching demeanor that had clouded his persona previously, it was a new stance and a different Frank than I had just seen in here, moments ago. He drove off into the afternoon, and I drove home a couple hours later. Something was changing with Frank, and it was something sour.


	25. Chapter 25

Whatever had changed with Frank, it was beyond my control and beyond my sight as well. It started to snow, and the cold days dragged on with no sight or sound from him. I worked every day, and I didn't see him once. I saw his friends, loud and joyful as always, and they didn't seem to miss him. But I certainly missed him. I was aching with his absence, hot and restless every night in my cold room as the thoughts of him never ceased. It was wondering where he was, combined with wondering what he was doing, what he looked like at that very moment. I licked all the dirt out of my fingernails as I chewed them to excess, and I sucked down more turpentine than I rinsed out of my painting jars. 

 

I produced art in excess. If I couldn't have Frank in concrete reality, I would construct him in my own reality. I depicted his face over and over again, a serious of portraits with each and every fickle, fleeting emotion that had ever flicked across his face. When I looked at them, it was like he was real all over again. I stared at them every night before sleeping, pretending that I was falling asleep with him, next to him. I was finally sleeping somewhat regularly, with a consistent four hours slamming shut my eyes from every middle of the night to every cold, gray morning. My other schoolwork was done hastily, but at least it was completed. Completed better than it had been previously, in fact. I was restless, jittering, and if I wasn't doing something with my hands I felt as if they would rattle away.

 

My professor, my art professor, he told me I was improving. He told me I would have a great place at the gallery show that was coming up. I didn't really care. It wasn't as if anyone else would appreciate Frank like I did. I would be constantly nagged at during class, asking who the boy was, and I ignored everyone. I didn't speak, for they didn't deserve to know his name. It would be a secret I kept in my sleeves, scribbling his name all over my arms whenever I began to miss him too badly. Frank, Frank, Frank. It was illegible and smeared every time, but the ink was still a chemical seeping into my skin, just like the chemical component of this infatuation. I was sick every morning. I was pregnant with possibility. 

 

Possibility used loosely, of course. There was the possibility that I could see him again, the possibility that my fingers might graze themselves across his palm again, but it was all still so indefinite. There was no guarantee. It was the empty box on Christmas morning, Schrodinger's feline boy. He was elusive and sly, rattling the alley behind my house with only the thought of him, my dreams mistaking each clatter of a trash can lid to be his shoe on pavement, loud and overwhelming to my pathetic senses at least. I was forgetting what he smelled like, with only the basic concept stuck in my mind. I drove past some black and white roadkill the other day, and the skunky smell half-hit my throat. It wasn't quite right, it wasn't exact, but it sent me sobbing nonetheless. I missed him. I hurt so bad without him.

 

I was being ignored by my parents, my brother. I hadn't done anything "weird" to set off Mikey, and as long as my bank account was filling up and my parents' account wasn't being overdrawn, they were content. I didn't even spend the wages I was accumulating at work. I couldn't care. I wasn't hungry, and I only periodically needed to replace my art materials. I made good use of them. Not a speck of paint went to waste, for Frank was a compilation of a million colors. His lips were sometimes blue with cold, his eyes flickered between green and yellow, yellow and brown, and there was always so much red. Red in his lips, red in the textbook-perfect musculature that I sometimes displayed. To artistically strip away his skin was a small sacrifice. He was a marvel of anatomy, and in one painting I even took the time to split apart his stomach, to make him hold his purple intestines in his hands, to contemplate his kidneys as they were removed. He was crouching and naked, and he was beautiful. 

 

Eventually I did run out of room in my sketchbook, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. I didn't have work that day, so I went from school to the store. When I drove there, I noticed that the route took me right past my brother (and Frank's) school. On the way back, I noticed a parking space near the back of the building and took it. Sitting in my car, lurking behind the steering wheel as I shoved my seat back and pulled out my new book and pens, I imagined what Frank must be doing right now, assuming he was actually in class. Would he be daydreaming? What does a boy like Frank dream of, to begin with? Maybe he contemplated nothing at all.

 

Whatever was in his head, he'd surely be staring off into space right now. He didn't seem excessively academic. As I figured in the last windowpane in the background of my drawing, flicking in a few leaves for Frank to gaze off at, I looked up to notice the real Frank. I dropped my pen. There, standing by the back bike racks, there was Frank. Wearing his full uniform, preppy blazer and all, he huddled his arms close to his chest as he sucked on a cigarette. There were no other students. It wasn't lunch, class had to be in session. Yet still, here was Frank, blatantly mending the school schedule to fit his own. I sat stunned in my car seat as another car drove in front of me, roaring past my own vehicle as it sat in the lot.

 

It was the same car from before, and Frank crawled into it again. The windows were tinted dark, and all I saw from them was Frank's pale, delicate hand as he flicked the cigarette out of the window. I licked my lips. The car drove off, and I couldn't see far enough to figure out where it was turning off. I would follow, but something in my gut told me that was the wrong idea. Either way, I would at least take a souvenir from this encounter. I got out of my car, running over to search the asphalt for the butt Frank had discarded. I grinned when I found it, still warm from being lit and still damp from Frank's mouth. I held it carefully in the palm of my hand as I returned to my car, digging in the pile of trash that was in the passenger seat for something to hold it in. I was satisfied when I found the stained remains of a Quarter Pounder box, placing it inside gently. It would be safe there. 

 

I held it in my lap for the ride home, and I descended quietly to my room. I wasn't bothered by Mikey, which meant my visit to the school had gone safely unnoticed. I opened the box after I shut the door, and placed the cigarette inside my own mouth. I had never smoked before, and it tasted bitter and harsh. The ashes slid roughly down my throat, but I savored them with the knowledge that they were accompanied by small pieces of Frank. I took a small knife from my art table, splitting the cigarette butt evenly in two. As the ashes spilled onto the table, I scraped half of them into a small blob of red paint. For an object that had been inside the divide of Frank's lips, it would now contribute to the depiction of Frank's lips. The small flecks of ash blended easily with the paint.

 

For the other ashes, I licked my finger and stared at them for a second, contemplative and curious before dabbing my damp finger in the remains. They clung to the spit, and I quickly licked them off before they could fall. They tasted foul. I repeated this process until there were no remains left, tolerating the bitter taste for the sake of consuming Frank. It was a kiss that trailed all the way down my esophagus, and I trailed my fingers across my cheeks as yet another form of kiss. It was slow and gentle, the way my chubby, soft fingers moved over my face. His wouldn't feel like this. They were thin, they'd feel bony and cold. Mine were flushed. But for now, as I licked the last fleck of ash from the corner of my mouth, this was a satisfactory way to pretend he was here.

 


	26. Chapter 26

The end of the semester had arrived, as predicted. With it came the gallery show, and as my professor had promised, I had a large exhibit. It meant that I had to take a couple days off of work in assisting him in setup. It didn't matter. I hadn't seen Frank in nearly three weeks now. I was rolling over and contemplating the best way to avoid living every night, and it was a good thing that all of my final art projects were completed. I didn't have any inspiration otherwise. 

I had succeeded in pounding out the rest of my homework, papers, and finals. They were half hearted at best, but I had solidified my grades for the end of the semester. There was nothing lower than a C. Mostly a B average. I could deal with it. Of course I could deal with it. It wasn't like I set any stock into my grades. The single A I earned from my art class did nothing to lure Frank out of any hole he may have been hiding in. 

If he would only come back for a moment, if he could only return from wherever he may have been hiding. I needed him to exist, exist beyond all the hours I was spending sitting in my room, watching the same reruns over and over again until I managed to fall asleep, managed to take advantage of the saving grace of unconsciousness for at least a few hours until I woke up to the same cycle again.

I couldn't even half look forward to going to work nowadays. I knew he wouldn't be there, for some reason I just knew. Those gut feelings proved true day after day, and going to work was a constant, aching, dull bleed whenever I was stuck shuffling behind the counter. I could see all the places where he used to be. The counter he used to lean on, the chairs he used to sit in, the floors he used to walk across. It was as bad as anything else, and I sometimes sat in his old chair on my break. Even his friends stopped coming around. It was really quite final at this point.

I don't know if I had set it off in anyway, or if anything I had done had spoiled it. It was certainly possible, really more than possible. It would be ideal should it just be him distracted, not him offended. I hadn't done or said anything to him. He had probably just gotten bored. He had probably moved onto better things, with less clumsy fools to get in his way. The way of giving him a suitable meal, if nothing else. I couldn't even do that properly. The one task that I had been made to do for him, and I couldn't even do it. No wonder he had left.

Except for the one day that he came back. He came back wearing a parka and those tight, tight jeans, with his thin legs sliding out from underneath the hem of it. His sneakers looked like duck feet, and he was flushed from the cold, chewing on his lips. I could see the scabs slip off and flake onto the counter tops. Unwittingly, I reached out to catch them, but he caught my hand instead. His hand was soft and warm, and his fingers quickly closed around mine. His palm was as sweaty as mine. I could feel my heart pounding as he rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand.

"Missed you." he smiled, looking up at me from under heavy eyelids.

"Y-you what?"

"Said I missed you, Gerard."

"How..."

He brought a finger from the hand that wasn't holding mine up to my chest, tapping the name badge pinned to my shirt. "I read." he said, letting his hand linger, letting his fingers curl around the fabric. I could feel the warmth of his fingertips seeping through. My heart was pounding, beating close to cardiac arrest. I looked around, and the store was deserted. Even my coworkers were gone. It was only us. I looked past Frank, focusing on the snowflakes falling outside, and only saw him push himself onto the counter out of the corner of my eye.

His mouth was on mine in seconds, hot and warm, tongue sliding past my teeth as I sucked it into my mouth. I grabbed him by the shoulders, and we both tumbled behind the counter. My sneakers scraped the sticky tile, and he pushed me down onto my back, pulling at my clothes and my hair. My hands fumbled to do the same to him, and I shoved them under that parka. He was sweaty, so sweaty, and I was even slicker with it, whimpering as he licked his damp tongue over my hot neck.

I was still whimpering when I flipped over into the wall, pillow held tight to my chest. I was hard and hot and there was no Frank. It had been a dream, it had been yet another inconvenient delusion. I reached down to jerk off and the full blow of it only being a dream hit me even harder. I moved my hand fast and started coughing and choking, sliding on sweat and precome in my pajama pants.

The whimpering turned into sobbing as I came, not even bothering to wipe off my hand as I clenched the pillow harder and started shaking as the crying intensified. I missed him. There was nothing, there were no feelings stronger than the pounding in my head. It was an ache, and ache that seeped into every bone of my body. It felt like my existence was a bruise. I fell asleep again after a while and slept until my mother came down to wake me up for the gallery showing. I didn't want to go. I really, really didn't want to go.

But I went. I didn't bother to shower, I just mopped myself with a paper towel. Disheveled and tired, I stumbled around the art building until I found the correct room and the table of crummy refreshments. I stood around eating cookies, watching as people were drawn to my wall, my large collection of works. They seemed to like them. They kept pointing at different parts, and I could see them talk amongst themselves and to my professor. I ducked away when I saw my professor looking for me, attempting to point me out. I wouldn't have that. I wasn't interested in speaking about my "inspiration" to anyone.

My professor did find me, though. Eventually. He told me about how popular my art was, how everyone was talking about. I mumbled a small speech of gratitude. My professor went on and on with praise, telling me that a few people had even asked about purchasing them. He asked me if it would be alright. I said it would. He told me he would put them in contact with me, and I refused. I told him he could take care of it, he could just forward everything to me. He told me that some of them wanted to commission me for art, and I told him I couldn't do that right now. I was busy, I didn't have the time to fit it in. He nodded, looking disappointed.

I sat on a folding chair for the rest of the night, staring at the passerby until they all eventually trickled out of the room. My professor came to me at the end of the night, giving me receipts, phone numbers, and checks. He told me that the pieces that had been sold would be taken away within the next week. He pointed them out to me. I nodded. I didn't care. It was better that they were gone, better that I didn't have to look at them. Having piles of Frank in my bedroom would do little to me. Well, it would do a lot. But not in the positive sense.

I made about seven hundred dollars that night, and deposited the checks into my account the next morning. It was the start of Christmas break, and I had plenty of free time on my hands. After that, I didn't do much, though. I was still sitting in my room, still doing nothing much at all. My professor had made a point to discuss my art with me, and his comments were mostly positive. Notes on how much I had improved, on how talented I was. Especially compared to how things had been earlier in the semester. He asked me about my muse, after that. About who the boy was, the one who had inspired so much of my art. 

I just told him it was someone I had made up. He may as well be nothing but that at the time my professor had spoke to me. He was hardly real anymore, and who was to say he wasn't just a delusion? It happened all the time. It happened with poets, with artists before me. Not that I could call myself an artist. I had only recorded him, twisted him into visuals that I found to be more visually appealing. And perhaps it was a punishment for all those thoughts, but now he had twisted himself out of my reach, twisted up into nothing like a sliver of smoke into the cold air. The boy was vapor, and the key word here now was evaporated. 

It was cloudy through Christmas, and it didn't even snow very much. I wasn't permitted the grace of having at least a piece of my dream come into context. I only went to work a few times. Hardly anyone came in. Most people were out of town. Maybe Frank was out of town. Maybe he was just gone. I slept through most of break. My parents didn't give me any presents, they told me college and support were enough presents for me. They bought my brother a car. He had his girlfriend over to share Christmas dinner with us. I ate a roll and returned to my room, to sleep. I was getting very good at sleeping. It was becoming my new biggest talent.

Perhaps I could just make it a permanent career.


	27. Chapter 27

"Hey, creepy. You're still here, huh?"

 

I blinked up from the book I had been reading from the counter. Frank. Frank standing there in a thick winter coat and wrapped up in gloves and scarves. It was the week after I had gone back to school, and a few days after a monster blizzard had ripped through town. It was another dream, I knew it was. I had been conscious of my dreaming for a while now, always knowing Frank was here and that he really, really wasn't. I picked up off the (imaginary) stool, and delivered my usual line, sighing. I asked him if I could take his order. Then he would lean over the counter and kiss me, kiss me until I woke up hard and sweaty. I was tired of only seeing him in dreams. I hadn't drawn since the last time I had seen him in reality. It hurt terribly. I was useless and found comfort only in delusion.

 

"The usual. You know, right?"

 

I nodded, stumbling over to prepare it. This was different than how the dreams normally went, with Frank just standing there, waiting. As he watched me, I sighed. I wished that the dream would just cut to the chase already. The dilly-dallying around, it was exhausting. I yawned, tired even in sleep, then swore as I felt a sharp jolt of pain. I had cut myself again. My thumb was bleeding all over the counter.

 

"Shit, shit shit!" I muttered as I fumbled for a dirty rag to mop up the blood. I was running the shift alone. It was a slow day due to the blizzard, and I was competent enough at work now to handle the duties by myself.

 

"Hey, you alright?" Frank said, leaning over the counter. There he went. Soon he'd be over it and on top of me, and the clothes would snap off of him in one dreamy blink. He wasn't wearing the usual tight jeans, he was wearing his school khakis. I looked at him, swallowing. He looked concerned. "You're really fuckin' clumsy, aren't you?"

 

"I...yeah, sorry....hold on. I'll...make you something else."

 

"Gimme that one. And a new one. I'm hungry."

 

"What?"

 

"And some cookies. I'm fuckin' starved."

 

"O--okay."

 

I prepared the rest of the food one-handed, keeping my bloody hand in my pocket. Frank laughed at me as he watched, and I saw him pull out his phone and type out a text message, snapping it shut after he finished. I set his bag of food on the counter carefully, making sure not to tip over his drink. I knew his order exactly, and even in dreams it didn't vary. I stared at him, waiting for the dream to climax and for Frank to scrabble over the counter and onto me. I wasn't anticipating it. I just wanted to get it over with.

 

"Are you...gonna charge me?" he asked slowly after a minute or two had gone by. He was frowning at me, shifting his shoulders and looking around before pulling out his cell phone again, sending another text. He kept his eyes on me as he did.

 

"I...um."

 

"No? Okay then." He closed his phone again, picking up the bag and scratching his head. "You know, you should really stop being so weird. Stop staring at people. It's really, really fucking weird." Frank walked out the door, pulling out a cookie to munch on as he walked away, down the pavement in the cold. He went slowly, sure not to slip or slide on the ice. There was no car to pick him up today, not even in this weather, and I leaned over the counter, watching him for as long as I could. 

 

That was strange. The dream hadn't happened as it normally did. It hadn't happened at all like usual. I looked at my apron pocket, seeing the dark stain of blood spreading on the front, and realized I ought to tape it up. It stung. It wasn't a very deep cut, but it was still unpleasant. No. No, no wait. It stung. I could feel it. I gasped, biting my tongue in horror as I realized what was going on. I felt that, too. I grabbed the knife again, taking a quick nick at my forearm. It burned and stung, and I watched the blood seep out, warm and red. I wasn't dreaming. Oh god, for I wasn't dreaming. 

 

Frank had just come in, I had spoken to him. He had spoken to me, and in my expectation of unconsciousness I hadn't even noticed. I had...I had been standing there, waiting for him to _touch_ me. Touch me in the real world, outside of dreams. I had expected it from him. I had turned him into, into a _sex_ object. I clapped a hand over my mouth, still tasting the blood from the cut on my thumb. I had really, really blown it. I had sent him out, he had left, he was gone. But he had been alone. He was never alone, he was...he was an enigma, constantly surrounded by everyone. Anyone, someone. He...today had been bizarre.

 

Perhaps there had been more to Christmas break than I had thought. Perhaps, perhaps I had, no, _he_ had changed. Something must have happened. Something to make him so perfectly, pristinely alone, and returning to school. From what I had gathered, he hadn't been at school much over Christmas break. Not with his absence of uniform every time I had seen him. Those tight jeans weren't school appropriate. Those jeans. My stomach flipped and turned.

 

I paced behind the counter for the rest of my shift, making my feet sore and picking away at all the skin on my fingers, biting my nails and tasting the remnants of the food I had prepared for Frank on my fingers. It was mixed with blood and a faint sour taste. Paint. Of course it was paint, I had been cleaning my room the other day. Cleaning, of all the things. I had been unable to sleep and there was nothing else to do. My new art professor had been enthusiastic over the report from my last one, and had been even more enthusiastic over my portfolio. She couldn't wait to see what I had done, well, no. No, what I would do. And I hadn't done a thing yet.

 

I was only taking art classes this semester. Art history, a couple intro classes, and this one advanced drawing class. My professor had told me privately not to waste my time with anything else, that I was headed towards big things. So to the dismay of my parents, I took no more business classes, English classes, or anything else. Maybe I would transfer eventually. Who could say? Maybe I could wrap Frank up in my memory, and take him with me in my head. Maybe I could find someone else, or find a school near enough to commute and keep Frank close. New York wasn't so far away. There was plenty in New York.

 

But I needed to create. I needed to do something, anything, and I started scribbling as soon as I got home. Frank. Frank. Frank all over the place. The way his heavy clothes folded over him. His nose, over and over again. Bitten by the cold. Soft at the end and just slightly turned up. I shook as I drew him, knocking over a glass of water on the table and spilling it all over my sketchbook. "Shit! Shit, shit shit!" I cried out, before whimpering and knocking the whole mess off the table. 

 

I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't know what I would do if I saw Frank tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. I picked off the band-aid on my thumb, biting down hard on it and making it open up and bleed again. I wiped my eyes, realizing I had started crying again. I didn't know if it was from pain or Frank. But god, there was so much Frank. There was too much of him to deal with. I picked up my pencil again and buried him in the snow. I drew just his nose poking out, and his eyes shut tight. I couldn't have him look at me, not out of a paper or otherwise.

 

When that sketch got stretched out wider and painted with all the whites and grays I had on hand, with just a few sparing dollops of red and pink, it finished itself two days later. I had seen Frank again, and again. Two days in a row. He was mostly quiet, he didn't say much. He didn't pay much, either. My professor was ecstatic when I presented it to her. I was ecstatic when Frank took the package out of my hands the other day. He asked me how my thumb was. He congratulated me on "not fucking up today." I was fucking up. I was fucking everything up, terribly, and I didn't even understand how.


	28. Chapter 28

But really, I did understand how I was fucking up. It was in the way I always cut my hands open when I prepared his order, apologizing over and over again as I reached for bandages and he sighed, used to the wait by now. My hands were clumsier than ever with how they were taped up, and just seeing Frank made them hurt. I expected blood to spill whenever I saw his face. I suppose it would fall into the category of "morbid", but it was really just a result of me being an uncoordinated fuck-up. After the fifth day of this, he just stopped asking for avocado on his sandwiches. He was getting tired of the hassle, he told me. I bowed my head and nodded. I was ashamed.

 

Painting was hard with my fingers all taped up. They hurt, for one, and made me uncoordinated, for another. It wasn't just painting that was affected, but everything I could do. Drawing, pastels, pencil, especially charcoal. Whenever I picked a stick up, the dust infiltrated my wounds and set them on fire. I sucked it up and stripped off the bandages when they just hit the point when they were too much, gritting my teeth as paint, pencil shavings, and dust filled the cuts.

 

Frank hadn't spoken to me much, spare the day when he told me to not bother with the avocado, to put down the knife before I hurt myself again. He had sighed loudly when he said this. I was letting him down, but at least he kept coming. As a sort of appeasement to him for the hassle, I always gave him his order free of charge. He shouldn't have to pay for poor service or a speck of blood on the sandwich, he shouldn't have to pay for food that took double the time it should to prepare.

 

My art of him began to be specked with blood, too. Taking off the bandages left me with freer movement of my fingers, but it also worried the cuts apart. At first the specks ruined my work, drying in places they didn't belong and forcing me to try and frantically cover them up. Eventually, though, I just incorporated the blood into the work. It was the shading in the grass, sometimes the brown in his eyes or the dark patches in his lips. If I ever ran out of blood, I just had to pull open some scabs and they set flowing again. Hand wounds were convenient in that way. I was putting out a lot of work, and it was helped by the fact that I was seeing Frank so much now. He came in every day.

 

Today was the first day that I managed to prepare his meal without injuring myself. I couldn't help but flush with a bit of pride as I handed it off to him, all of it neatly wrapped and tucked up with extra napkins. I had given him a hot chocolate instead of a milkshake, per his request. I didn't even spill any of the liquid on me. I did not drop a single marshmallow when I prepared it. I couldn't help smiling, either. It felt abnormal, to stretch my face like that when it was so used to flopping at a blank. But for the first time, I hadn't fucked up.

 

"Here's your order!" I grinned, and handed it to him with perhaps too much haste. The lid of the hot chocolate popped off and the entire contents of the cup spilled all over him, a dark stain spreading across his already dark coat and saturating him down to his khakis.

 

"Ow, shit!" he yelped as it sloshed all over his hand, dropping the cup and letting what was left of it spill to the floor. He put his bag of food down on the counter as he wiped his hand off on his pants, cradling it to soothe the burn.

 

"Oh god. Oh god, I'm so sorry." I gasped, trying to hand him napkins. I caught his face, and I saw something I hadn't seen there before. It was hurt. Frank had been many things, a million different shades of cocky confidence, but never hurt. It was my fault. This was all my fault. I had injured him, I had burned him, of all things.

 

"Jesus Christ." Frank scowled, shaking off his scalded hand and attempting to blot his front off. I stood there, wringing my hands and feeling the cuts tear open under my band-aids. "God, what's fucking wrong with you?"

 

"I--I--"

 

"Seriously, like are you retarded?"

 

"N-no, I--"

 

"Sure as hell fuckin' seem like it."

 

"I'll...I'll get you another drink. I'm so, so sorry, I..." I cut myself off after that, running away to the hot water machine, trying to fix himself another drink. I cried out as I spilled hot water all over myself, feeling tears sprout in my eyes. It hurt, it was so hot and it stung even through my clothes. But this must be what Frank was feeling, right now. This was the same pain, the same burn, and it was my fault either way. I turned over my shoulder, trying to look for Frank, but his attention was still focused on drying off his clothes the best he could. I whimpered as I poured the new drink, still fighting back tears as I went over and handed it to him.

 

He sighed as he picked it up, carefully pushing down on the lid to make sure it was sealed before he took it off the counter. I sniffled, punching in his order to the cash register and then clearing it. I'd let it come out of my paycheck, like I did with all of his orders. All the orders I could never get right, no matter how hard I tried. Ten dollars or so for every mistake I made, for every bad experience that I owed him. My head was hurting from holding the tears back, and I could feel my eyes stinging as the saline built up in them.

 

"Dude, are you fucking crying?" I heard Frank say. I jerked up to see him staring at me, half disgust, half curiosity. I guess my efforts to hold myself back hadn't gone very well.

 

"I'm...I'm, s-sorry. I can't...I always screw up, you're right. I'm a...s-shitty employee, I, I g-guess."

 

"Well, you've got that right. But like, don't...feel so bad, I guess. It's not your fault that you're a clumsy loser, yknow? You were just, you turned out that way or whatever. It's like how this one guy I knew sees words mixed up. Doesn't keep him from being cool. And like, you're not cool, but you could be worse. I guess. I'unno."

 

I stared at him, sniffling. 

 

"But seriously, you look like a fuckin' wreck. Get...get a tissue or something." Frank said, pulling himself a step back from the counter. I obeyed him, of course, and started pawing around behind the counter for a napkin. Wiping my face with it, I could see the snot smears, thick and green, that must've made Frank distance himself from me. I couldn't blame him. After honking my nose out into the paper and throwing it away, I waddled back to the counter to see Frank hadn't left yet. He was just standing there, fiddling on his phone.

 

"D--don't you have to go?" I mumbled, looking down at his feet over the counter. He was pigeon toed in black skateboarding shoes.

 

"I guess. It's cold. I don't really wanna go home yet."

 

"W-what about your ride?"

 

"Ride?" Frank's head snapped up, staring at me. His face had changed. He looked...hostile. Sharp. Another look I hadn't seen on him before.

 

"Y-yeah. The...car that was picking you up. B-before Christmas."

 

"I don't have a ride anymore."

 

"O-oh."

 

"I walk." he said flatly, leaning against the counter and returning his attention to tapping away at his phone.

 

"Wh-what about your friends?"

 

"What friends?" he snapped, closing his phone shut with the same abruptness as he unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat, right there on the counter. He didn't look at me, but he looked even angrier at that then he had at the mention of the car.

 

"Y-you know. The other kids you hung out with...you came in, um, all the time in here."

 

"They're not my friends anymore."

 

My heart swelled and soared when he told me this, and I had to pinch myself to keep from smiling. I was so glad he was done with them, and him alone was perfect. "Wh-why's that?" I asked, trying to contain my delight.

 

"Things change." he said flatly, chewing on the mouthful of sandwich as shredded pieces of lettuce fell onto the floor. There was a glob of mayonnaise leaking out onto his thumb. I noticed then the yellow tint of the mayonnaise, how it stood out against Frank's pale, slightly pink skin. Undertones were important in art. I was learning this more from Frank than any of the lectures I had ever had in my life. I stared at that, following up to his face, the way his cheeks were flushed, the way his brow scrunched, the movements of his mouth as he chewed. His mouth was wet. My stomach rolled inside of me, and the cuts on my fingers itched. I watched the lump of food slide down his throat, into his own guts. I wondered if he was trembling at all. He didn't look it, but I know that I certainly was. I traveled up his face again to his eyes, realizing he was staring at me, too.

 

"Uh." he said, after swallowing another bite. 

 

"S-sorry." I said, looking down at my side of the counter again. Briefly, though. I was jittery, and couldn't help looking around. I settled on looking past Frank and out the window. It was starting to get dark, though the sky remained somewhat light, at least through the general gray. It was snowing. Lightly, gently, small flakes that fell down weightless from the sky. I could hear the sounds of Frank eating, the only ones in the deli. It was deserted, right now. The faint snow outside was supposed to be the precursor to a January blizzard. The television had been warning against it for weeks.

 

Frank took the last bite of his sandwich, crumpling up the wrapper and letting it sit. I took it off the counter for him, throwing it in the trash can on my side and returning to gawk, to dawdle and watch him. He opened the tab on the hot chocolate lid, carefully sipping at it. A few drops of it clung to his lips, and he licked them up. His tongue was small and pink. 

 

"This is good." he said, popping off the top to lick up the marshmallows and whipped cream lingering at the top. I stood silent, mesmerized by the movements of his tongue, quick and greedy. Something in me shuddered. I gripped the counter, hard, sending my cuts screaming.

 

"Oh, um. Thanks. S-sorry again. About um, about earlier."

 

"It was an accident, I guess."

 

"I...I hope the...discount will um, will make up for it."

 

"You always discount me."

 

"Well, I--"

 

"You give me shit for free. That's the only reason I still come here."

 

"O-oh."

 

"Food's good, but like. I'unno."

 

"Sorry."

 

"What for?"

 

"F-for..."

 

"It's just like...i'unno. I could take the bus home, I guess, but I get hungry. So I come here, because I know I don't have to pay. You always work, and you always cover me."

 

"I--I guess."

 

"Why?"

 

"I--I always screw up your order."

 

"So?"

 

"S-so, you shouldn't have to pay for it."

 

"You never screw up that bad."

 

"C-company policy!" I sputtered, growing anxious all of a sudden. He raised his eyebrows at me before returning to his drink.

 

"Whatever. Thanks, I guess."

 

"Y-you're welcome." 

 

Neither of us said anything else as he sipped the rest of his drink, downing it quickly before stretching his hand out with the empty cup, looking at me expectantly. I took it from him, grazing his fingers with mine as the cup was transferred to me and I threw it away. "Oh, this too." he said, handing me the unused lid of it, full of condensation. I threw them out for him, turning around quick to him, to see if he had any other tasks for me. He was pulling gloves out of his pocket, putting them on along with a hat. 

 

"Well, thanks." he said before turning around and stalking out, shoving the door open and stomping down the sidewalk. And like that, quick and quiet, he was gone.

 

"Bye..." I whispered as the door slammed shut behind him, rubbing my thumb over the band-aids taped all over my battered hands. All those mistakes, those were what had kept Frank here. I'd never been so thankful for my lack of grace. It was turning into my saving grace.


	29. Chapter 29

I felt cold and empty after he left, cold like the snow outside and the ice slicking onto the pavement. I wouldn't be getting off work for another hour or two. I hoped the roads wouldn't be too bad by then. But given the events that had just conspired today, dying wouldn't be too terrible. My hands were itchy under the bandages. I contemplated changing them, but I didn't want to take the effort. They did still have some bits of Frank lingering on them, after all.

There was Frank all over the counter, and I laid my hands over it, letting the sleeve of my long undershirt absorb the leftover drops of his drink. It was cold by now, but I could easily recall how hot it had been. I had felt the warmth on his fingers against mine, his cheeks flushed up and nearly tingling. His fingers, that is. Those were tingling, hot against mine. I took in a long, slow breath, pressing my fingers against the cool surface of the counter.

I stayed there for a few minutes, eyes closed as I relived the events of earlier. I breathed slowly, trying to catch any lingering scent of him that could be stuck in the air. I licked my lips. Frank. Beautiful, beautiful Frank. I sighed, pushing off of the counter to rub my hands together, bringing them to my mouth and pressing them to it. He was real. He was so real, and all alone now. No more hooligans to keep him from me, no mysterious cars to snap at him and steal him away. My Frank.

He was mine, in a sense. He was mine to care for, in feeding him, in covering his bills. If only I could keep him out of the cold, keep him warm with more than just hot drinks. Drinks for me to serve him, not spill on him. I wouldn't make that mistake next week, I wouldn't. No, not even next week. Next time I saw him, whenever that may be. I hoped it would be soon. I wanted to keep him so tight, so close.

I loved him.

I loved looking at him, I loved every small word that spilled out of his mouth in my direction. Even not my own direction, if just a mention to someone else of something far from me. When he was with the others, I still loved him, when he turned to face me I fluttered on the inside even more. He was speaking to me so frequently, with a couple more words each day for a week past, and now today, right now in this day, he had given me so many. Scattered out of his mouth, different dynamics and so many sentences, and today they had all been for me.

I remembered the souvenir he had left me, one I hadn't even thought of until just now. I walked to the trash can, reaching inside and plucking up his cup and the lid, as well as his wrappings. He had handed them to me, to throw away. They were practically gifts. Gifts from Frank, to me. The mess of paper in my hand was like a bird's nest, and if only it in itself so happened to be bigger, so that I may nest in Frank. 

And then the cup, the cup his mouth had been all over. All over, those delicate lips and that flickering tongue. It was a pink I'd before only seen in rodents, in the tiny, the precious, the fragile. Frank was like that, and it would be so convenient for me to cage him. He could be my little rat, skittering around in my hands to allow me free touch of him, perfect captivity of his whole body. Best of all, he'd never have to leave. I'd never have to whisper farewell to his retreating back, not ever again.

I tucked the papers, the cup, and the lid inside of a paper bag, carefully folding the top over. I was off of my shift soon, and they'd serve me better at home. Not here. I wasn't about to take that holy worship outside of my room. Frank was mine, and he was meant to stay within the walls of my place, my sanctuary where my only duty was to replicate him in oil and chalk, in anything available. I stared at the clock as long as I could, sighing and tracing his former imprint across the counter.

I hid the bag in my coat once I was free to drive it home, shielding it from the snow. I had no interest in having Frank's remnants soiled by the falling flakes. The snow was clean, pure in every stereotype, but it was also damp and foreign. Frank's fingerprints would not be washed away, and aside from the specks of garbage that had inevitably adhered themselves to the discarded items of Frank--not trash, of course not trash--would be all permitted to invade the sanctity of his touch.

I got home to lock myself in my room quickly, setting the bag down on my bed. I locked the door behind me, then moved to rustle the papers out of the bag. I found some tape in my room, the strong kind, and I set them to my pillowcase, covering as little of their area with tape as I could manage. I pressed it flat, sighing as the blue of my pillowcase was replaced by white wax paper. I brushed my fingers over it, letting myself lie down on the bed to rest my face against it. The pillow was soft, not as soft as Frank's fingertips had been against me, and the paper was cool against my cheek. Most importantly, it was covered in Frank's fingerprints.

I rolled my face into it, letting my lips brush against the paper. I could taste crumbs as my tongue slid out, and I could only hope that they may have fallen from Frank's mouth as I kissed the pillow, putting a hand on it to bring it closer to me. I drew in a breath before pulling it closer still, cradling it in my arms as the thought of it as a pillow in paper ceased and all it was became Frank, Frank, Frank. I whimpered a little as I pushed my mouth harder into it, licking at the crumbs that clung to the paper as I pretended I was picking them from Frank's mouth, and moaned as my tongue slid against my own slobber. I could almost pretend it was what had dribbled from Frank's mouth earlier.

I broke away from it, flushed and hard, sweaty to death. I pushed myself up, panting, and shoved my palms against my face. The sleeves of my shirt were still covered in Frank, in Frank, and I was tingling all over. Everything I had right now was saturated in Frank, not just the notion of him but the actual existence of him. My hair covered my eyes, and as I shoved it out I noticed the cup. God, how could I forget. Of all the things present, that was what had had the most contact with Frank. I grabbed for it, folding it in half to replicate his mouth and shoved it against mine.

The rim of the cup was covered in his mouth, and I could slide my tongue into the opening. It was practically real, it was like I was kissing Frank himself. The cup covered in his cells, reverberating my sounds against my mouth, as if I could even forget they were mine, that Frank was making those sounds. I was panting, whimpering as I ran my tongue over as much of the cup as I could, feeling it grow soggy with my spit. If small pieces of it were breaking off, I couldn't mind. If I swallowed them, I couldn't be bothered. It was just another piece of Frank I could keep inside of me.

I groped for the pillow, grabbing it again to squeeze it tight against my chest. But that wasn't enough, not through all these layers, and I tore myself away from the cup long enough to tug up my shirt to press my sweaty skin against Frank. I could feel the cold sheen of the paper, freezing against my flushed body. I was grinding up against it, not nearly enough friction to satisfy the burning in my jeans. I felt as if I was going to explode. My stomach ached, my eyes were squeezed shut tight and it hurt, it hurt so bad. 

I let the cup fall from my hands, tugging down my zipper and pulling out my thing. I attacked it with both hands at first, desperate and needy, squeezing the pillow tight against me as I pawed at myself. But it wasn't enough, I couldn't do it without Frank. I couldn't, I needed him. I grabbed for the cup again, staring at the opening for only a second before shoving it to me, squeezing it tight to shrink the opening. The rim was damp and soft from my saliva, and it was warm enough to feel like something, something else. Anything.

I pressed the pillow harder against me and jerked the cup into me, shoving hard against it. I could feel myself inside of it, through the cup as I squeezed it tighter in my hand, around me, and I tumbled onto my back, shoving my hips up into it. It was dark in my room and my eyes were shut so tight. The walls were thick enough that I was sure no one would hear me as I yelped out, coming into the cup hard. So, so hard. I could hear it slap sticky against the bottom, and gravity led it to trickle back onto me. Returning from whence it came, just like Frank did every day in coming to the store.

"Frank...." I breathed out as I rolled onto my stomach, pulling the pillow up to my face to nuzzle against what was left of Frank. I loved him. I was so happy. I loved him so, so much. I removed the cup, setting it on my bedside table to clutch more at the pillow. I stroked at the sides of it, pressing gentle kisses to the sweat-soaked case of it. I was sleepy now, tired and content.

"Frankie..." I mumbled one last time before falling off to sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

"Buy me cigarettes."

 

"Wh-what?"

 

Frank had just came in through the doors, and he was leaning over the counter like he always did. His eyes looked tired, baggy, but he was still frowning. He looked irritated and determined, with a sharpness I hadn't seen on him in a while. Normally he came in a little dazed, a little glassy eyed and sleepy. But today, he was crisp and sneering.

 

"We, um. We don't sell those here."

 

"You think I'm retarded? Go to the fucking convenience store."

 

"I...but...I'm, I'm working right now."

 

"Yeah, no shit. I meant when you get off your shift. When's that?"

 

"In...um, an hour."

 

"Cool. Okay, then do it then."

 

"But..."

 

"What? But what? You're eighteen, aren't you?"

 

"Um, nineteen, but..."

 

"Then there's no fucking problem." Frank pushed himself off of the counter and stormed off to a table in the corner, digging a book out of his backpack. He bit at his lips fiercely, angrily as he did so, picking off skin as he ripped through the pages. 

 

"Are you...going to wait?" I asked, leaning over the counter to look at him, curled up on the sticky armchair with his tiny knees tucked up under his tiny chin.

 

"Nothing better to fuckin' do." he snapped, not looking up from his book.

 

"Um, what are you reading?" I asked after a few minutes of his silence and me twiddling my thumbs behind the register.

 

"Lord of the Flies. Fuck off." He flicked another page, and I took my cue to remain silent. 

 

A few more customers came through, but not many. Eventually, the coworker who was taking over for me walked in, going past the counter to the employee breakroom. When she came back out with her apron on and her coat gone a minute later, I took my cue to leave my station and make the reverse switch. Carefully folding my apron up into my messenger bag, I pulled my heavy coat on, grabbing my hat as well. It was cold, the kind of cold that didn't even breed snow. Just sharp and bitter. I hesitated, patting my bag to make sure my sketchbook was still in it before creeping over to Frank.

 

"So, um. You wanna go now?"

 

He looked up from his book, scowling at me. "Are you  fucking retarded? Go by yourself, dumbass. If I go with you they'll fucking catch on. Giving cigs to a minor? Illegal?"

 

"But...that's what I'm doing any--"

 

"Yeah, but you're not gonna fuckin' broadcast it. Go get them and then come back here. Are you fuckin' capable of that?"

 

"Y--yeah. Are you gonna...gonna stay right here?"

 

"No shit. Can you go now?"

 

"Yeah, sorry..." 

 

I walked out slowly, turning my collar up against the cold. I could take my car, but the store was only a few blocks away and it seemed silly to have to feed any more meters. The wind was blowing sharp in my face, and my eyes teared up from it. Keeping my hands clenched tight in my pockets did little to warm them. I wish I had a pair of gloves. I bowed my head against the wind, pushing against it and trying to think of how warm Frank's hands had been whenever they brushed against mine. It didn't work so well. My teeth still rattled in my head and my limbs still shook with the chill. I'd be okay. It wasn't so far away, I could see its neon sign lit up. It was starting to get dark even though it was still relatively early. Of course, that was winter in Jersey. Endless and dark.

 

I started to hustle my steps, hoping to get into the convenience store and out of the cold a little bit sooner. This backfired on me, as my shoe slid on a patch of black ice and I tumbled to the ground, landing hard on my backside. I yelled out, but there wasn't anyone else walking to hear me. They all had the good sense to stay indoors. I whimpered, trying to push myself back up, but I wound up slipping again and falling on my face. The ice numbed my hands and at the same time made the new-forming bruises hurt even more. I finally managed to get myself up, almost slipping again, but catching myself. I shuffled slowly, painstakingly the rest of the way to the store. 

 

I grabbed the handle of the door to steady myself, stumbling in as quickly as I could. It was such a sharp warmth that hit me, and I was almost gasping for breath as I loitered in the door. But I couldn't get distracted. I had to carry out Frank's mission. I pulled out my wallet, going fast to the counter as I reached for my money--oh, and my ID. That was the important part of all of this. That's why he needed me in the first place, so that he could take advantage of my age. That's why he needed me. But whatever the terms were, Frank needed me. I found myself smiling. I couldn't help it. Mutual feelings were a good thing to have.

 

"Um...c-can I...get some...um, some cigarettes? Can I buy some?"

 

The older woman behind the counter looked at me with scorn. "ID?"

 

"Yeah, h-here." I pushed the plastic at her across the sticky counter. She picked it up, scrutinizing it before handing it back to me. 

 

"What kind?" she asked, staring at me with heavy-lidded, froggy eyes. She certainly sounded like a frog, with a low, croaky voice. 

 

"Uh, um. I don't...um, whatever's good. What's good? I, I don't know...um...."

 

She rolled her eyes at me, reaching behind her and picking up a carton. "Six-fifty." she grumbled, punching the item into the register. I pushed over my money, groping for the quarters and the carton, both of which I shoved into my pocket. I took a deep breath of warm hair before I pushed myself out into the cold air. 

 

It was even worse the second time around. The brief warmth I had felt inside the store was wrenched out of me, and I slid and fell on the black ice several more times. With the sun down, it was far more difficult to see where the patches were. I wanted to cry, but I picked myself up again, again, and again. I was going to be covered in bruises next time I took a look at myself. I was at least glad that I had had the sense to zip my pockets shut, keeping Frank's cigarettes safe within the waterproof lining of my coat.

 

I saw the deli in sight, but this time I had the sense not to hustle. I still fell down one more time, right in front of the windows. I grabbed at the storefront to pull me up, heaving in breaths of cold air. I saw Frank through the window, laughing at me. He was warm in the lights of the store, in the golden glow streaming out of the windows. If only Frank had been around during Christmas. He could've been framed in multiple colors. Gold wasn't so bad, though. It suited him. Precious, golden boy.

 

The bell jingled as I opened the door--another memory of Christmas, and I went to his corner to sit across from him in another chair. I was so close to him. I could smell him, see him so clearly, count every tooth his wide smile was showing me. 

 

"Oh man, you're a huge fucking klutz." he laughed as he shut his book, shoving it into his bag. He leaned forward on his knees, closer to me as his hair flopped in his eyes. "So, you get 'em?"

 

"Yeah, I got 'em..." I pulled the slightly squashed box out of my pocket, handing it to Frank. His fingers sizzled against my frozen ones as he took them from me.

 

"Ugh. You got me shitty ones. Oh well, they'll do. I'll give you a brand next time."

 

'Um, n-next time?" 

 

"Yeah, shithead. You think I'm gonna turn eighteen tomorrow? Fuck, I can't get these by myself. You're gonna keep getting them for me."

 

"I...I am?"

 

"Mhm." He turned the box over in his hands, stroking the edge, running a finger over the surgeon general's warning. "You falling is really, really fuckin' funny, yknow that?"

 

"Sorry..."

 

"You should get a job being a fuckin' clown." He laughed to himself, stashing the cigarettes into the pocket of his own jacket. I tried not to stray away from his torso, his hands, but I couldn't help going south to his groin, his thighs. Those baggy pants weren't half as fitting to his frame. "So, how cold's the ice, clown-boy?"

 

"Um...it's, um...very cold."

 

"Yeah, no shit." Frank stood up, zipping up his coat. "Drive me home."

 

"Wh-what?"

 

"Drive me home. Don't tell me you don't have a fucking car. I know you do."

 

"I--are you..."

 

"Shut up. Give me a ride home." Frank pushed past me and pushed the door open, and I followed him into the cold. I dug my keys out of my pocket, fumbling to unlock my car in the cold air. 

 

"Um, I'm sorry about the mess...I...don't normally give rides."

 

"Yeah, no shit." Frank sneered as he tossed fast food trash out of car and onto the pavement. My heart stopped as I saw his hands brush over a piece of paper. It was one of my better sketches of him, and I had forgotten to put it back in my folder. Everything flashed before me, and I was terrified. Everything was about to be ruined. 

 

But no. He didn't see his face stuck in charcoal to the paper, he didn't see his own effigy before shoving it out onto the soggy pavement with hamburger wrappers and old lids. It was lost to the night, and he climbed in and sat on the grimy seat. He crossed his arms over his chest, backpack on his lap. He neglected to put on a seatbelt, and I didn't correct him as I buckled in mine.

 

"So, um...where's your...where do you live?" I stammered, starting up the car. Thank god it started on the first try, thank god.

 

"I'll direct you. Take that street, right there. I'm close by."

 

I pushed on the accelerator, driving five under the speed limit the whole time as Frank tossed out directions at me. He was abrupt, and didn't look at me. His eyes were stuck out the window, staring at nothing. I watched him as best I could, watching the streetlights pass over him in intervals, lighting up his face in orange and yellow. He was why I was driving so slow. The five minute drive to his house couldn't last long enough.

 

"Here. Let me out." he said flatly. I looked at the house he had stopped me in front of. The windows were dark, and it was excessively ordinary. Nothing special about it, aside from the fact that it looked like no one was home. Frank fumbled with the lock on the car door, exiting my car without much show. His cockiness, the laughing of earlier wasn't there. He was just gone.

 

The car door slammed shut before I could say goodbye, and he didn't turn back in between the time that he left my car and entered his house.

 

"Bye..." I said to my empty car as his front door slammed shut.


	31. Chapter 31

I had memorized the route to Frank's house, of course. It was relatively close to the deli, and not nearly close enough to my house. This wasn't one of those delightful romantic comedies where it turned out the coveted lover was also a secret next-door neighbor. No, this wasn't a romantic comedy. It wasn't romantic, I forced myself to believe. It was a study, a case study in the form and figure of Frank's face. Frank's body, at times, but no. It was just him as a still life.

Well, of course he was never still. Not in the way his eyelids were always flickering, in how his hands never stopped moving. He had this small habit of picking at the skin around his fingernails. He also chewed on them. He would chew, then pick. Chew, then pick. I could see the spit shining in the light on his fingertips. He chewed his lips, too. The reason they were so red all of the time was because they were constantly being ripped up, raw and bloody. You couldn't see them from a distance, but with as close at Frank had been getting to me lately, I was picking up on the small details.

Those small details included a tiny, tiny scar at the top of his nose, near his brow. I was taking special care to include it in the drawings, now. It was technically an imperfection, but I didn't consider it as such. He had a few very faint freckles, too. You could barely see them, mot people wouldn't even consider them to exist, but I noticed. I made them just as subtle in my drawings of him, just a tiny dash here and there with brown colored pencil. It blended in with the rest of the shading I'd implement, just like the specks on his face blended with his pinks and peaches, with whatever shadow or light was falling on his face at that moment. 

I watched him smoking outside one day, bundled up in the baggy clothes he had taken to lately. He didn't get rides anymore. I wondered what had happened. He ducked his head down as the wind blew past him hard, scuttling the trash on the sidewalk and causing him to curl up inside of himself, keeping the flame close to his face. He didn't have any gloves on. I thought it might be nice of me to get him some, a really thick pair to shield his small hands from the biting winds of January in Jersey. His hands were getting chapped. Peeling, sometimes, and always red. I could see them.

I didn't like it. Frank needed to be preserved, kept in perfection and a "pampered" state, I supposed. All of those beautiful girls in Greece were kept fat and happy with fruit and wine. I couldn't buy Frank booze, no. He had asked. He'd come to the counter one day, rapping his frozen hands on the counter and pressing for me to buy him beer, buy him beer. I wish I could've, but I was only 21. He huffed and sent me off for more cigarettes after I finished taking his sandwich order. I got them quickly that day, as the ice had melted away from the sidewalks. He had already finished his food by the time I got back, and demanded some chocolate chip cookies. I fetched them for him, and he left after that. They were freshly baked, and still warm in the bag as he stomped out of the deli without another word. 

Another day, I had an idea. After the initial incident, he had made sure to note down his preferred brand of cigarettes. He had been in every day for the past week, and it was making me feel warm and delighted. To pay him for his time, to repay him for his presence, I bought three packages of cigarettes. It was a Friday, and I knew he wouldn't be in over the weekend. He came in as usual, slumped over the counter as usual while I prepared his food for him. I snuck the cigarettes in with the sandwich and cookies, and pushed the bag over the counter to him.

He opened it to check that I hadn't screwed up his order (he still didn't quite trust me, for whatever reason) and his eyebrows went up. He pulled the cartons out, frowning and examining them. He looked up at me, confused, and I grinned back at him. I smiled with my teeth. My parents always nagged at me for not having smiled with teeth in a school photo since the second grade. My face was stretched out with how pleased I was, how excited I was to give Frank this surprise. Frank stared at me, frowning a little bit. But he didn't say a word. He just put the cartons back in the bag, pulled up his hood and walked out. The smile slid off of my face.

Had I done something wrong? That was the way gifts were normally procured, right? I mulled over it until the end of my shift, mulled over it when I went to the convenience store a little later to purchase a package of cigarettes for myself. Frank's brand. I picked up a blue lighter, too. That was the color that Frank had. 

I took them home and kicked around loose papers in my basement for a while, pacing back and forth before finally taking them in hand, fumbling to pull out one stick and light it up. The lighter was unresponsive at first, and I burned a couple fingers once I got it to light successfully. I held the end of the cigarette out, but it didn't hold the same appeal burning in the lamplight of my room that it did burning in the setting sun, the gray outdoors between Frank's fingers. I put it to my face, not really sure how to go about this. Despite the art school stereotype, I had never smoked a cigarette before. 

It went badly. It went in the way of coughing and spluttering, of my throat burning and me dropping the cigarette to the ground, barely managing the common sense to stomp it out before it ignited the carpeting. The object in question became reduced to ash beneath my sneaker, and I was left sitting on my bed with my eyes watering and my pride wounded. I couldn't be Frank. I don't know what I had been thinking. That had been the biggest flaw in the whole plan, of course. I was trying to imitate Frank, to emulate Frank, to do things that Frank does. That wasn't my purpose. Only Frank could be Frank. I was stuck being me, waiting and watching, doing my best to document but never to transform into the subject itself. 

While smoking in itself had failed, I could still hold onto that scent. Even if I didn't smoke the cigarettes myself, I could still let them burn and carry little bits of Frank up into the air, down to the carpet to pepper it with ash. I collected the ashes in a little jar, sniffing them as they cooled. It was Frank. Not entirely Frank, but a little bit of Frank that I could keep tight, open up and smell whenever I felt the need. I went through the whole package that night, letting them burn up and fall away. It was ten dollars down the drain, literally burning money, but I didn't mind. I could call it art supplies, after all. Mixed with water, mixed with a little ink, the ashes served to contribute to works of art (featuring Frank, of course) that now had the ability to carry little pieces of Frank inside of them. 

In this, the sky was gray, made grayer with the benefit of ash. Frank stood out among it all, of course. I hated this time of year in Jersey, but at the same time, I didn't want it to end. Who would know if Frank would be around once the rain started to pour down in the springtime, and I didn't even want to think about the summer after that. If the clouds would keep Frank close, then the clouds could stay as long as they wanted to.


	32. Chapter 32

 

Frank was sitting in his usual corner, eating his usual meal. I was watching from behind the counter, again as usual. I was cleaning. Cleaning was always an excellent excuse for staring. It kept my hands busy and my eyes free, a task distraction that made everything more convenient. He looked tired, and was leaning on one hand while holding his cookies with the other. He hadn't been very talkative at the counter today, so I had slid in an extra one. So, four. He normally got three, but the extra made it four. It was clear today, after sleeting for the past two days. But Frank's mood had gotten worse, not better with the clearing weather.

 

I contemplated going over to speak to him, but I figured it wouldn't be the best idea. It wasn't my place, at least. Unfortunately. I wished it was. He was always so alone, now that those other friends had gone away from his company. It was nice to see him alone, though, even if he did look a bit dejected over the whole thing. It was okay, though. He was better off without them. He was better off with me, just me alone. His breathing sufficed as company for me. Maybe eventually he'd feel the same about my lungs. 

 

He opened up his sandwich next, sighing at it and picking off the pieces of lettuce. My heart stopped. I had given him extra lettuce, he normally loved it. But today he was discarding all of them, flicking them to the side. They were soaked in mayonnaise. He let them fall on the plastic wrap in a pile, and moved on to pick apart all of the other items in the sandwich. Cucumbers, tomatoes, cheese, olives. All of them were taken away and added to the pile. Frank began to pick at the bread next, shredding it into tiny crumbs and starting to make a pile of peeled crust, of bits of bread the pigeons outside would kill for. 

 

He looked outside, his lazy stare drifting up underneath the lazy flop of his hair over his eyes, and he froze. I had never seen Frank snap like that before. But he looked like a deer in the headlights. I hadn't seen many deer in headlights before, living in the Jersey city-suburbs, but I was familiar with the phrase and Frank was as good of a deer as any four-legger. He dropped the sandwich, gripping at the table, and I was too busy gawking at him to notice the tinkle of the bell.

 

I noticed the man when Frank's stare snapped forward. He was angry, the man. He was only wearing shirtsleeves and a sweater vest, despite the cold, and his eyes were red and wide. His hands were clenched and I could see the veins bulging out of them. There was a pair of car keys dangling from his right, and I could see the single vehicle parked in the front lot of the store. It was the one I had seen Frank get in before. This must be the man. I had never seen him up close before. I wrenched my eyes off of him to look at Frank.

 

He was shaking. Trembling. His mouth had tumbled open, small and less red than usual. His cheeks were paler, too. The color was lost from him. I could see his shoulders vibrating inside of his heavy jacket, and he was staring at the man like he was about to be sick. The man stomped over to Frank and began screaming at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him out of his seat. His face was close to Frank's, screaming and screaming. Frank's eyes were squinted shut, and he tried to turn his head away. The man grabbed him by the cheeks and wrenched him back around, going so close to him that their noses were nearly touching.

 

"You're coming home! You're not going to fucking do this anymore, this....come and go, this...not after Christmas! That's no one-time deal, Frank! You're coming home. Now. You're going to come out with me, and get in the car."

 

Frank's normally clear face was starting to crumble, and I saw his face scrunch up and tears start to leak out. No. No, this was not happening. Frank's mouth wasn't spreading as this man continued to shake him, continued to yell and spit in his face. I was--no. This man wouldn't handle Frank like that. No one handled Frank like that.

 

"Excuse me!" I interjected, coming out from behind the counter and running up to them. I put a hand on the man's shoulder, pulling him away from Frank. "S-sir, you--you can't act like that in here. You, you need to leave."

 

"Stay out of this! This is nothing to do with you!"

 

"I-if you keep acting like this in the store, I--I'm going to call the police. It's, um, it's...public...mis--"

 

"Fine! Fine, we don't need to be in here anyway. Frank, come on. We're leaving."

 

Frank was sobbing at this point, big fat tears. The man's hands were still clenched hard around his shoulders, and I could see how white his knuckles were. Frank was going to bruise.

 

"N-no."

 

"What?"

 

"You're, um, you can't take him."

 

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?"

 

"S-sir, unless...no. There's no way you're taking him out. Not with, with the way you're um, handling him." My knees were shaking. This man was glaring at me now, glaring at me with the way he had been at Frank. He could overpower me easily, if he wanted to. He had an inch or two on me, and was certainly angrier. Stronger, too. With how he was holding Frank, I could see it. "You need to leave. I'm serious about calling the police." I managed, swallowing as he continued to look me up and down. 

 

He looked at me, then to Frank, and to me again before squinting and turning to walk out. But before he left for good, while he still had his hand on the handle of the door, he turned around to Frank again, pointing a finger at him. "Don't you think this is fucking over, you little shit."

 

And then he was gone. Frank, oh god, Frank. I could hear him sniffing, still breathing heavily with tears beside me. His nose was dripping, eyes were worse, and I was going to vomit. He wasn't to look like this, nothing should ever happen to make Frank look and feel like this. I grabbed napkins from the table, handing them to Frank, who sputtered out a "thanks" before he began to mop his face up, crumpling the napkins when he finished and wiping his nose on his sleeve, smearing a train of snot across the black cotton of his jacket. He didn't do anything but sit after that, sniffling, and neither did I. My hands sat folded in my lap, and I didn't look at him. I felt that if I stared he'd snap.

 

"Take me home. Please."

 

I nodded, and went back to punch out and get my things. My shift was ending anyway. It was convenient how these things always worked. He had cleaned himself up, even thrown away the napkins, and he was standing by the door, looking outside blankly. There was nothing outside the windows. 

 

"Are you, um, ready?"

 

"Yeah."

 

He followed me into the car and didn't say a thing. He didn't say a thing on the way to his house, either. I wanted to prod and push, wanted to demand who that man had been. I wanted to know who he was, to maybe be able to pick up an address to go over and give him a piece of my mind. Well, not necessarily. Not really at all, I was impossible when it came to confrontations. But I dragged my car into a stop in front of his house, ready to let him go all the same. He didn't say anything about me remembering the route. But of course, of course I had. There was no way I could forget any detail of Frank.

 

The car stalled for a few seconds before I looked over at Frank, who wasn't budging. I put it into park and turned the engine off. He still didn't move. He just sat there, slumped and silent. I could hear him breathing, still clotted with sniffles and the dragging of snot through his sinuses. His knees were tucked close to his chest and his arms were folded across it. Frank was looking out the window again, as if he was waiting for something. There wasn't any eagerness or anticipation in his eyes, though. They were empty and looked flat. He wasn't chewing on his nails or his lips, or partaking in any of his normal nervous habits. He was just there.

 

"Frank?"

 

He didn't respond. 

 

"I...um, I'll...sorry, I'll just...yeah." I joined him in his silent sitting. The heat was starting to leave the car, and the quiet dragged out. I started the car again, just to turn the heat on again. Frank didn't flinch, didn't acknowledge it at all. He simply sat. His face was flushed again, and his brow was furrowed together. He was thinking about something now, now that I turned to look at him again. I tried to open my mouth again, to speak to him, but he did before I could.

 

"Thanks."

 

That was when he pushed himself out of his seat, unfolding his limbs and opening the door. He gave the glass a gentle tap with his fingers when he shut the door, as if he was making sure the window was still there. He took his time getting up the walkway to his house, and fumbled in his pockets before finding a key. When he opened the door and walked outside, he checked behind him, looking around before closing the door. He even looked back to my car. I waved at him, hesitantly, but he just shut the door. The sun was setting, and his house was dark. A light came on through the window, though. He was safe and sound within. I sighed and started up my car again. It was time to go back to my house and turn on my own lights.

 


	33. Chapter 33

I made a return trip to Frank's house. That night, actually. I came home, heated up some dinner, and went downstairs to pace around my room. And pace, and pace, and pace. I couldn't draw, not for sake of worrying. I convinced myself that Frank was in legitimate danger. And, doing the reasonable thing and seeking to stop said danger and preserve his safety, I picked up my car keys at 2:27 AM, hauled my sedan back onto the interstate, and set off to his residence. If any murder was to happen, it would occur right now, I told myself. Murders always happened in the middle of the night. It was like my father had once said--nothing good happens after midnight.

I had the luxury of gunning it down the interstate. The cops didn't care and there was no one else out driving at this time of night. They had the sense to sleep. I couldn't sleep for worrying over him. I whipped my head around back and forth once I drifted into his neighborhood. I drove past his school, the deli, and finally settled my tires onto the road leading to his house. There was a bit of lingering black ice, so I coasted slowly, parking a block or so away. I had memorized his address, being sure to scribble it down on a scrap of paper. Not that it would ever escape my memory. But I just had to be sure. 

I shut my car door quietly, huddling up in my jacket. It was freezing, 18 degrees outside at best. I doubted even that. I had forgotten gloves and my hands were going numb. My teeth chattered and I lost feeling in my cheeks, too, as I shuffled down the empty sidewalk to his house. I realized I hadn't thought to bring anything to defend Frank, or myself, against that other man. Or whoever came with the other man. He could be a gang member, for all I knew. Not only that, but wandering around Jersey this late at night wasn't safe. But I didn't need a baseball bat, or mace. I could run. And if it came down to Frank, I'd use myself as a shield. If I couldn't fight for him, I'd always at least be able to protect him. If only for a minute. If only to give him a quick escape. 

I saw his house, quiet and dark in the night. Almost dark, I noted. I saw a dead shrub lit up, far in the back. If the night wasn't so pitch black, I wouldn't have noticed that little patch of light. I took a deep breath, creeping up to the side of the house and inching along its flaky painted paneling slowly. I made the best effort not to breathe. When the light was less of a flicker and more of a thick-spread pat of golden butter on the lingering snow, I dropped down to my hands and knees, carefully crawling in the abandoned garden. My fingers froze among the icy weeds, and my knees were catching a damp chill. It didn't matter. I continued to crawl until I was blessed with a vantage point, a clear, straight view inside that tiny basement window. I kept back from it, being careful to cover my mouth so that no stray breath could drift over and fog up the glass.

Frank was in his room, alone. He was lying on his bed, staring aimlessly at the television. He was rolled over on his side, back to me. There was an old horror movie playing on the screen, but Frank wasn't flinching. He wasn't moving at all, and I wondered if he was asleep. Despite the cold, he wasn't wearing any bulky pajamas or sweatpants. Just boxers and a t-shirt. His body lay outside of the confines of his blankets, and the pillow was tucked up under his arm. The bed was a queen size, and too large for his tiny body. He floated on it like a raft in the ocean. Maybe Frank wasn't the raft, but the bed was the raft and Frank was adrift. I didn't know, I just stared. His thighs were pale. I wasn't sure why his light was on if he was watching a movie. It was only a lamp, but still. It seemed counterproductive.

I wasn't complaining, though. It was better to squint at Frank in light than in darkness. He was so still, and I wished that I could crawl through the window and join him on that oversized bed of his. It was twice the size of mine at home, in my own basement. I smiled a little bit as I realized that fact. We both had basement bedrooms. It made Frank a little more real. Granted, I didn't necessarily want him to be real. He still existed better as a distant god, some noble lady tending her garden in a distant moor. No, that was a stupid analogy. Frank wasn't a lady. Oh god, Frank wasn't a lady. He had just rolled over on his back. I just saw him turn, falling over onto both shoulders as if on a roller. It looked as if he had been pushed. His hands fell down to his hips, the pillow slid to the wayside.

God, Frank was no lady. He grabbed at his parts before I could get a look, but they were there. I had seen them, straining out of the thin fabric of his boxers. They were plaid. He was squeezing at himself through the fabric, wriggling his hips back and forth. He was teasing himself, I realized. His mouth was opening as his eyes were closing, and I could see the pink flicker of his tongue. His other hand pulled up on the waistband of his boxers, sliding under, and he yanked his other hand back, letting it fall on the bed next to him. The palm was turned upwards, and he leaned his head towards it. He was breathing heavily, so heavy that I could see his chest with every intake. I didn't linger on his chest long though. There were more important things to attend to.

I could see Frank's hand moving underneath the fabric, slow and steady. It was a contrast to the way the rest of him was thrashing. The fingers of his spare hand curled and clenched, squeezing themselves into a fist and then moving out to spread again, to hook under the elastic and yank his shorts down to hide his thighs and expose his other parts. I gasped at the same time I saw Frank gasp, right before he frowned and bit down on his lip. He looked as if he was holding back more than a gasp. He wriggled his hips around, letting the shorts slide down farther, down to his knees as he continued to drag his hand up and down on himself. I saw the pink tip of his head poking out from his fist, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from whimpering.

He squirmed more, kicking them off and spreading his legs apart on the bed. Now I understand why he had a queen size. He filled it up a lot more efficiently when he was spread out like this, bony knees pointed towards the ceiling. I could see all of the details I'd been missing out on before. I could see just the way the little bit of fat he had held onto his thighbones, the way his hips poked out of his skin and sloped like arrows to the patch of hair he was blocking with his hand, with everything else. His erect penis was a darker flush of pink than I had ever seen his cheeks go, and I could feel my own straining into the dirt as I lay on my belly. Remembering I had one, too, sent me into overdrive wanting to touch it, but I could do that anytime. Watching Frank was far more worthwhile than attempting to match Frank.

His pace was starting to speed up, and his head was tilting back farther into the pillows. I was chewing on my frozen fingers, but I didn't notice the cold. I was burning up watching him. He had slid a hand up his shirt and was exposing more of his stomach. I could only assume that he was stroking the skin, the delicate nipples that lay beneath the cotton. I was shoving my hips helplessly against the ground as he bucked up into his hand, mouth falling open wider and wider. His hips were moving fast and hard into the air, and his eyes squeezed shut with his mouth as I saw him ejaculate, covering his hand and stomach. 

He stopped abruptly after that, his hand still stuck to himself as if it was glued there by the semen. He was laid back perfectly on his pillow, eyes shut easily and chest finally starting to slow down. His pulse was lowering, he was calming down. I could see the movie still playing in the background, forgotten. I was so glad Frank had left the light on. I watched him there, forgetting my original intent. To protect him, or something like that. But he was safe. I had done my job, there had just been other circumstances that wound up entangling themselves inside if it. I shifted on my stomach, feeling a damp stick inside of my jeans. I guess I had come, too. I didn't notice.

Frank's eyes opened after a few minutes, and I saw him look over at the television, then at the mess he had made. He pushed himself up, still naked from the waist down, and got off of his bed. It was then that my common sense and sense of panic set in, and I scrabbled off the ground, bolting down the sidewalk to my car a block away. I opened the door clumsily, feeling my semen freezing in my undershorts. My hands were icy, and I didn't realize how numb I was until I couldn't even manage to turn the knob and crank the heat in my car. I turned the ignition on quickly, and I was through the interstate and home before I knew it. I changed clothes quickly and crawled into bed, shaking with what I had seen. I had to sleep, but I couldn't shut my eyes without seeing Frank.

I had a lot of hot, sloppy fever dreams about him, and I woke up to find my pants were ruined again. I had work today. I had class today. I had to see him again, today, and I knew that even though I'd be seeing much less of him than I had last night, today would be the most I'd ever see him. Because now I knew. Now I knew the extent of his perfection. My stomach rolled and tossed inside me as I grabbed for my sketchbook, early that morning before I had to leave, and quickly documenting what I remembered from the night. I did it quickly, then ripped out the page, tucking it safely under my mattress. Frank's privates were a secret. I had been given that secret, and I was going to keep it safe. Only I would see them.

I couldn't stop seeing them that whole day. They were behind my eyelids, with every other scene from the night before. I sighed and sighed my way through classes, and sighed heavily when Frank didn't show up at the deli that day. Something must've happened. I wasn't concerned, oddly. A feeling in my gut knew he was safe, and another feeling slid out of my guts once I got home, tugging the drawing out of its hiding place and tugging on myself as my sweaty fingers smeared the pencil I had recorded it in. I gasped and spluttered, and the picture wound up ruined. I drew another. I drew Frank, as a study, exactly as he had been last night. He was so good like this. He was so good in my sketchbook, drawn out where only I could see him.

If only I could only touch him.


	34. Chapter 34

It wasn't that I had been neglecting everything else in my life. I was just rearranging my priorities. My textbooks set under my desk were closed, abandoned. I vaguely remembered something about an exam. Something important. I was turning in work to my other classes, and though my professors this term weren't quite as ecstatic as my one from last semester had been, I wasn't failing. To my knowledge, which wasn't much. I had forgotten my login for my online class account, and I couldn't remember the last time I had sat at my computer anyway. It was an old desktop, the keys sticky with spilled coffee (coffee with more creamer than beans).

I turned over the page I was working on and was met with cardboard. All out. All out so quickly. I had to go and get a new one, sometime today, maybe. I had seen Frank at work today, but it was eight PM now. I didn't have time to go out again. No. No, that was absolutely incorrect. I could go out. And run an errand to Frank's house on the way home. Yes, that was perfect. That was exactly what was going to happen. My mother, my parents and brother would be proud of me. I was never the type to have plans in high school, especially on the weeknights. But look at me now. It was a Tuesday and I was booked. Hard, solid and booked.

Seeing Frank that afternoon had been different. It was bound to be different, now that I knew everything under his khakis. The way his hips looked. Sharp, perfect, stinging hips. I felt my lungs get heavy and my bottoms get warm as soon as I saw him walk through the door. He was rubbing his eyes, sleepy and bleary. I shivered when I saw his pinkie slide over the crust on his eyelid. I knew why he had been up late. I had been up late, too. I had been up late with him. He yawned as he approached the counter, waving at me. It was less of a wave in the back and forth, but her instead raised his hands and scrunched his fingers clenched and open, clenched and open.

I remembered how that mouth had looked stretched open last night. He wasn't so sleepy then, and god I'd say it had been even wider. I'd caught view of his white teeth, shiny molars when he yawned, and I supposed I had missed that last night, but the key about last night was the fact that his mouth hadn't been yawning. He'd been wide awake, mouth full of posies, and God, it had been wet. It looked like cherries in the open slit of a pie. I grabbed hard to the edge of the counter, forcing a smile back at him as he took his order. He was calmer today, calmer and friendlier than I had ever seen him.

Stress relief. What I had seen him doing last night, that was stress relief. That was the entire point of it. Among other things. That's why Frank was looking so pleased today, so lazy and content. His eyes were sleepy and droopy, and I noticed he couldn't stop yawning as he ate. But he still looked pleased. There was a dopey smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, and I saw the mash of food in his mouth whenever he chewed. It was a soggy burst of color, but I didn't care about the colors inside his mouth. All that was important to me was that slick, wet red of his mouth itself. My knuckles clenched on the counter as I saw him lick mayo from the corner of his mouth.

I could feel myself, stressed out and needing to be relieved. I thanked God for the counter. My palms were sliding on it, and I had a flashing thought of grabbing a paper towel. I was going to mess my work pants just looking at him. But God, there was so much to look at. His hair was growing longer, and flopping over his eyes a bit. It curled behind his tiny ears, and he kept running a hand through it to push it back from time to time. I couldn't decide if I liked it or not. On one hand, it made him look even more like a little Roman god. But on another, it obscured his face. I didn't know. I couldn't handle Frank.

It was an abnormally warm day, and Frank just waved at me again as he walked out the door. Walking home. He did that clenching finger gesture to me again, and my stomach flipped as I remembered what they had been clenched around last night. His hands were in perfect proportion to that part, those other pieces of his existence. My hands would be too big, I realized. They'd swallow him, engulf him. But he'd be safe. They'd be a good house for him, they'd keep him enclosed. I could. I would. I wished I could.

I remembered a more important detail from last night. He had bruised. I had remembered his shoulders, smooth, round and bony in his lamplight. White and pure for the most part, but purple and blue where the man from yesterday had grabbed him and gripped him. He was stained. That man had made him imperfect. Well, no. That hadn't been the case. He was still perfect, but his form had been sullied. That was the better way to phrase it. It was blood on the breast of a dove. The rest of him was clean, though. Thank god.

Thinking about those marks had upturned my stomach and the rest of me, but that one key piece had settled itself down. Frank hurt in any way was--what did the TV call it? What had I heard my classmates say? An "instant boner-kill"? I guess that was the slang nowadays. It really didn't encompass the cause, the rolling wave of nausea that came from thinking about Frank hurt in any way, or in any sort of danger. An image of him with a broken arm, bloody on a sidewalk flashed through my head. No. Stop.

There was only one situation to this, of course. It involved me turning over my sketchbook as I sat that night, leaving my house with ten dollars in my pocket and two trips planned out. One to the art store, one to Frank's house. Again. I told my parents I was meeting a friend from school. They seemed happy. I hadn't met any friends at school, of course. I spent all my time at college waiting for it to end, waiting for that perfect hour of three PM that meant Frank would soon be in sight. Now I had another perfect hour on the clock--midnight, PM.

I liked driving late at night better. The streets were clear, and for once Jersey was blank. Dark and orange, with the creaky flicker of the streetlights. When I was younger, on car rides, I used to draw by the periodic flashes of light that would come from streetlights on whatever long drives we went on. It just hit me that I hadn't brought any pencils with me. I had the new sketchbook sitting next to me, yes, but nothing to create anything with. I guess that was the proof I wasn't going to draw Frank. I was just going to watch Frank.

I was Frank's lookout device. I was making sure that the man didn't come, that nothing bad happened to him on the off chance that he was sleeping. I didn't think he was sleeping, but that was besides the point. Once I got there, I could see for myself. I was a watcher now. There was nothing wrong with watching Frank, or watching out for Frank. Watching Frank was just part of the study. It was what I had been doing all along. Just because I didn't have anything to record my observations with, that didn't change the intent. I could commit him to memory. That's what everyone did. Millions and millions of artists, they went off on the persistence of memory, not immediate recording. Besides, it was too dark to draw.

It was too dark to draw by the side of his house, and I was scooting forward on my belly now, crawling towards the light just as I had the night before. My cheeks hurt, but it was from smiling. I supposed the cold as well, but I had worn a hat and gloves this time, as well as a scarf. It meant I could spend more time watching Frank. Maybe I could even catch what he looked like in his time of sleeping. My eyes widened as I caught him wide awake, tugging his shirt over his head. I caught him just as his nipples appeared from under the black, and he wasn't sleeping. 

He scratched at his hair, reaching for the remote on the bed and turning up the volume on his television. He looked up at the ceiling before tumbling onto his bed. It seemed as he was checking for something. He must have been satisfied, though, as his next course of action was to roll over and around like a contented dog, smiling wide as he shut his eyes and shoved his hand into his pajama pants. I scooted closer to the window. I had arrived just in time.

Frank was a lot faster tonight. He didn't drag it out like he had last night, instead going as if his life depended on it. I wished he would slow down. He didn't even pull his pants down and then his face squeezed up. I saw him clap a hand over his mouth, his hips shoving up into the air. I had gotten hard, really really hard, but I hadn't come in my pants like I had the other day. I mimicked Frank and delved beneath my own waistband, snuffling softly as I came. It was fast. Frank had that effect.

He was lying there, recovering, and I saw him pull his hand out of his pants, looking at the mess on it and shaking his head. He got up then, scratching his head and walking over to the side of the room the windows were on. He looked around out of my sight, finding a tissue and walking away. Then he froze. His shoulder blades went rigid, and he didn't move for a few seconds. Then he turned around, and we made our first eye contact out of the store.

His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open, and I heard him scream through the windowpane. I gasped and stumbled to my feet, running as fast as I could. I tried to remember where my car was parked, and then my leg went out under me as I hit a patch of black ice and fell, hard. I got back up fast, trying to run and run despite the pain and the ice as I looked for my car. There. Finally. I got in it as quickly as I could, and thank god it started, and thank god I had gotten back home.

He had seen me. There was no doubting the recognition.

Everything was going to go very, very downhill from now.


	35. AUTHOR'S NOTE VERY IMPORTANT PLEASE READ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> READ THIS IT IS INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT

Okay. So, when I set out to write this fanfiction, I was initially torn between two endings. Instead of deciding on one, my plan of action at this point is to complete the fanfiction using both endings. 

To solve this problem, I have turned this fic into a series here on AO3.

I will post the first alternate ending soon, but it will be separate from part one of the story, which ends with chapter 34. 

While ending one will finish the story at 35 chapters, I am going to write a part two with a completely different plotline. This will make the story about...sixty? chapters? At least with what I'm planning, when the fanfiction ends at its second alternate ending, it should have effectively doubled in length. 

I'm going to post links as obviously as I can, but please check the series grouping in order to stay the most up to date.

Also, don't get upset when you read alternate ending one....it IS upsetting, but I promise, it is the exact opposite of how part two is going to go and how ending two will be!

Can't wait to write some more! 

And really, thank you so much to all of you who have been keeping up with this fic and sending me support and all that. This is the first long writing endeavor I've taken on and it really means a whole lot. Writing!!! YEAH!


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